>>2906078

>Twitter: https://twitter.com/MolochQM
>Previous: http://suptg.thisisnotatrueending.com/qstarchive.html?tags=Into%20the%20Skies
>Airship combat rules: https://pastebin.com/DTLDheZ6

“Strange bunch,” Caliban muses, watching as the churchmen slip away into the crowd, “Almost makes me want to follow them, see what they get up to.” Smiling wolfishly, he turns to you. “Are we moving on straight away?” he asks, “Or...”

Hess' message was clear, but you understand the lure of curiosity all too well. “You've got half an hour,” you concede, “We need to check the engines over, after all.”

“Of course, of course,” the hunter agrees, nodding his appreciation before stalking off after the churchmen.

-

“So, tell me something,” you ask Keziah, “Crowns.”

“I dinnae think they're your kind of thing, boss,” the witch replies, glancing around from the innards of the engine and wiping a smear of engine oil off her face, “You're no really the gaudy costume jewellery type, you know?”

“Very funny. What I mean is, do crowns have any special significance down in Nadir? From what Jackson told me, Eishin wanted a crown to call his own. What I want to know is why,” you elaborate, “Just arrogance, or does he know something that we don't? If those crowns have some kind of special power...”

“Hmm, I dinnae ken for sure. Next time we're in Monotia, we could try the palace archives – they might know more. After all, they've got a crown of their own to study,” Keziah shrugs here, wiping her oily hands on her breeches and then sighing with regret, “Done got myself filthy now, should probably get out of these messy clothes and-”

“Captain!” Freddy barks, rapping her knuckles at the engine room door and causing Keziah to hiss a curse to herself, “Caliban just got back.”

“Nothing interesting to report. I tailed the churchmen all the way to one of the public baths, but I thought better than to follow them inside. I couldn't listen in to anything they were talking about, either,” the hunter reports, “I did learn something, though – a little bit of marketplace gossip about a wyrm sighting down in Nadir. Could be our friend, too, from what I hear. The trader I spoke with said that it was green, like it was covered in moss. Feel like hunting that damn thing down, captain?”

“Aye, hold on,” Keziah interrupts glumly, giving them both a sour look, “We've got that letter to deliver to Hess, remember?”

“I could take the Eliza and deliver it for you,” Freddy offers, “A little bit of courier work, just like old times. What do you say, captain?”

>Concentrate on delivering the report to Hess, ignore the rumours of the wyrm sighting
>Follow up on the wyrm sighting, send Freddy to deliver the report
>Other

>>2906080
>Follow up on the wyrm sighting, send Freddy to deliver the report
"Alright I'll take you up on that. Don't get into *too* much trouble."

>>2906080
>>Follow up on the wyrm sighting, send Freddy to deliver the report

>>2906080
>>Follow up on the wyrm sighting, send Freddy to deliver the report

Maybe it's just a petty response to Hess' command, or maybe it's just your curiosity getting the better of you, but the idea of going wyrm hunting is sounding more and more appealing by the second. Besides, you've got an ex-courier as part of your crew, so why not put her to good use? Nodding to yourself as you reach your decision, you flash Caliban a daring smile and slap him on the arm. “Sounds like a good time to me,” you tell him, “Freddy, I'll take you up on that offer. Try not to run into too much trouble, though.”

“Trouble should worry about running into me,” she replies boldly, the strained delivery leading to her boast falling flat. Caliban snorts with blatant laughter, turning and strolling out of the engine room.

“You boys and your games!” Keziah scolds, flapping her hands at you in exasperation, “Ah, but I suppose you're right. Cannae be certain that the engines work until we test them out, can we? Go on, I'll keep an eye on things here – any problems, any at all, and I'll let you know.”

-

Engines hum, and the air crackles with power as the Spirit of Helena lifts off and leaves the Sol Carthul aerodrome. Down below you, a thick layer of murky cloud hangs over the whole of Nadir – you don't see the flash of lightning yet, but you know storm clouds when you see them. Dwight lets out a low murmur of unease as he peers out the window, watching as the Eliza drops free from your airship and flits away towards the Pastona Union. Giving Freddy a brief salute, you angle the Helena's nose down and plunge into the mass of cloud.

Visibility drops to almost nothing as you enter the clouds, and the hushed music seeping out of the radio dies with a crackle of static. Sitting beside you, Caliban closes his eyes and allows a cold smile to creep across his face. He insisted on being here, for the “hunt” as he called it, and you welcomed his instincts. Knowing better than to disturb him now, you leave the predatory man to his own devices.

“Chief, I don't want to worry you, but I just saw something move out there,” Dwight warns you, “Not a ship, either. Ships don't move like that. Hell, ships don't LOOK like that!”

“Then we're getting close,” you mutter to yourself, making a tiny adjustment to the controls, “A break in the cloud, just give me a break in the cloud...”

Instead, you're treated to the sight of lightning exploding within the clouds like a flashbulb. Silhouetted against the brilliant white glare, you see the long, sinuous shape of a wyrm. Just as Dwight said, there's no mistaking it for another ship.”

“Engines are working perfectly,” Keziah reports, her voice crackling over the radio, “Hotter than hell though. Never thought they'd kick out so much heat...”

“I'm taking us closer,” you announce. Your words are greeted by a hollow silence, neither Dwight nor Caliban able to offer any response.

[1/2]

>>2906140

Cutting the Helena's speed by half, you cautiously guide the ship towards where you last saw the wyrm's shadow. At last, your wish is granted as the clouds break open to reveal the alien creature. Bleached white, save for the green patches of moss, the wyrm is undoubtedly the same creature that brought down Tobias and his Steppenwolf. A danger to any and all who would fly these skies... but for now, it seems content to keep its distance. Almost as soon as you've set eyes on the thing, it cuts through the air – as elegant as a fish swimming through still water – and vanishes deeper into the clouds.

A soft grunt of irritation escapes you as you urge the Helena after it, dropping lower and increasing your speed. When you catch up with the wyrm, it drifts leisurely above you and glances down with almost playful tilt of the head.

“Keziah, give me a report,” you order, “How are the engines looking?”

“Workin' perfectly, boss!” she repeats, breathless with joy, “This close I figure we should be losin' power like a leaky bucket, but the condenser is doin' a fine wee job. It works, boss, it really works!”

“Hold on a minute!” Dwight protests, “Were you expecting it to fail?”

“Err... maybe a wee bit?” the witch answers, “What I mean is, I didnae expect it to work so well, that's all!” She laughs again, then sobers up a little as she continues. “Boss, the Megiddo Cannon should be ready as well. I'm a wee bit less certain about this, but I think a shot from that should, ah, it should hurt that thing. Make it vulnerable, like,” she explains, “It's like overloadin' a generator, see? I think those wyrms drain power like Pleonite cannon fire, feed on it, but the Megiddo Cannon is powerful enough to... well, you ken what happens when a generator goes wild, right?”

Pressing your lips into a tight line, you watch as the wyrm swoops around you, close enough that the Helena shudders in the turbulence left behind. “I don't, actually, but I think I can guess,” you reply, “Does it explode?”

“Aye!” Keziah confirms, “Explodes, catches fire, all that good stuff!”

“Less talk of exploding, please,” Dwight requests, a rare note of alarm stealing into his voice, “It's bad luck.”

“I-” you begin, only to cut yourself short as the wyrm twists tightly around and powers straight towards you. Thrusting the controls straight down, you drop the Helena out of the way just in time for the wyrm's charge to fly straight overhead. In the wake of its passing, you hear – or imagine – a peal of childish laughter.

“Megiddo Cannon ready for use!” Gunny barks, his voice overlaid with static, “Just give me the order!”

With cold sweat on your palms and the wyrm coming around for another pass, you prepare your next move.

>Fire the Megiddo Cannon at the wyrm
>Chase after the wyrm
>Retreat back towards Azimuth
>Other

>>2906187
>>Chase after the wyrm
I don't really want to blow this thing out of the sky unless we really have to.

>>2906187
>Chase after the wyrm
the power drain from the megiddo could do a number to OUR engines, too. And we have Caliban if we want to explodey something. Or missiles.

>>2906187
>Retreat back towards Azimuth
Why did we go aftter it anyway? What did we want to achieve?

>>2906187
>Chase after the wyrm

>>2906204
See if the engine worked. Other than that... curiosity? These things are still an enigma.

Swallowing hard, you grip the controls tighter and kick the Helena into motion, chasing after they wyrm before it can charge at you. Dwight blurts out a surprised curse at the sudden acceleration, an unlit cigarette falling from his lips. Before it can fall into his lap, some unseen power catches it and lifts it towards the bridge's ceiling. Once again, you hear that distant, ghostly laughter as the wyrm effortlessly rolls over and dips low in the sky. Heedless of whatever danger might lie ahead, you continue to chase after it.

In terms of sheer speed, there's simply no way that the Spirit of Helena could catch up with the wyrm, but the creature mischievously allows you to overtake it, only for it to sweep beneath you a moment later and rip through the clouds ahead of you. Jerking back on the controls, you slam into a vertical climb that matches the wyrm's path. This time, you definitely hear an alien voice nagging at the back of your mind.

play! Play!

“So this is a game to you, is it?” you snarl, grinning savagely as you loop around the wyrm before breaking away from its path, “Try this!”

Pulling a full loop through the clouds, you end up facing the wyrm head on. Without pausing, you fire the engines to full power and charge straight forwards, as if meaning to ram the wyrm. Someone on the radio – you couldn't be quite sure who – lets out a wail of panic as the wyrm matches your charge. The distance between you closes in a matter of seconds, seconds that seem to drag on forever, until a collision seems inevitable. At what could only be the last moment, you slam forwards on the controls and send the Helena plunging downwards, just as the wrym swoops up and flashes over you.

play!

Again that voice, and you hear yourself laughing along with it. Then, a new voice – or something that is close to a voice, close enough that you're not sure what else to call it – cuts in with a wordless command. It's like hearing someone shouting from a nearby building, so muffled that no words can be distinguished. Even so, the note of command in that voice is unmistakable. That curt command reaches the wyrm as well, as you see the beast jolt in alarm. Breaking away from you, it turns to flee.

Curious now, you make a move to follow it but once again the Helena can't match the wyrm's speed. All you can do is sluggishly turn in time to see the creature plunging into the still ocean with an explosion of water. When the curtain of water falls away, you can see no trace of the wyrm – just an island, a meagre scrap of land home to nothing more than a stubborn patch of forest.

“What?” you murmur, feeling the excitement bleed from your body, “What was that all about?”

[1/2]

>>2906258
It's like a little kid. We also know that something else has some form of control over it when it wants to give commands.

>>2906258

With the wyrm's disappearance, the clouds quickly dissipate and leave you with clear skies. Locking the Helena at a more sensible speed, you hand the controls back to Dwight and instruct him to remain in the area. All that there is to see here is that small island, so you choose to circle that for the time being. Deciding your next move can come later, for now you need to make sure that your “game” didn't damage the ship.

“Milos, brother, I really don't understand you sometimes,” Gunny remarks as he nervously paces the bridge, “I thought you wanted to bring that thing down. Why'd you bring us out here?”

“Testing the engines, mostly. I'm glad to announce that the experiment was a success,” you explain, “Other than that... I was curious. I wanted to see what would happen if we got close to it. We couldn't really do that before, not with the engine issues, but things are different now.” When you see that Gunny remains unconvinced, you reach across and grab his shoulders. “Think about it!” you insist, “We might be the only people to have experienced something like this!”

“Certainly the only people to live afterwards,” Keziah chips in, perhaps unhelpfully.

Laughing incredulously, Gunny shakes his head and collapses down into a chair. “When you put it like that, I guess it IS an achievement,” he admits, “But me, I think I'd be happier with a quiet, unremarkable sort of life.”

“There may be some kind of cave system,” Grace muses, her gaze still locked on the island below you, “Somewhere for it to hide. A den? Do wyrms have dens?”

“This is definitely its territory,” Caliban agrees, “Just don't ask me to go swimming down there looking for a cave entrance. No way – you don't pay me enough for that kind of crap.”

“Wait,” Grace asks, “He pays you? I thought you were just... here. Can I-”

“I think I see a clearing down there!” you announce quickly, “Somewhere for us to set the ship down.”

“Take a look on foot, you mean?” Keziah asks, “Aye, that might work. I dinnae ken anythin' about the islands around here. Never really had any reason to think about them – they arenae exactly important, y'know?”

That, you suspect, might not be entirely accurate. Still, it's time to decide on your next move.

>Land on the island and take a look around
>Head back up to Azimuth. Hess is waiting, after all
>Other

>>2906307
>>Land on the island and take a look around

>>2906307
>Land on the island and take a look around

>>2906307

>Land on the island and take a look around

Well Kez, I'm betting they're about to start attracting a lot more interest.

>>2906307
>Head back up to Azimuth. Hess is waiting, after all

“We're landing. I want to take a look around,” you decide, giving Dwight a firm nod, “Not important, Keziah? I think that might be about to change.”

“Ooh, if we find somethin' down there, you reckon we'll be able to name it?” the witch eagerly replies, “Now that I think about it, I dinnae ken if the islands down here even HAVE names. I guess they must do, even if only the locals care enough to remember them.” Pausing here, she scratches at her mop of hair and peers down at the slowly approaching island. “Locals...” she repeats, “Doesnae look like it would support much in the way of locals, does it?”

“Not people, certainly,” Caliban agrees, smiling dangerously to himself.

-

The first thing you do, upon landing, is wait – wait to see if anything will emerge from the forests to meet you, mainly, but otherwise just... to wait. The tiny island isn't silent – you hear the sound of the waves lapping against the shore, and the faint cawing of scavenger birds – but it feels utterly divorced from the city you recently left. The good, honest sounds of nature are alive and well here. Lowering the cargo bay door, you finally stride out onto the island and look around.

Not much to look at, you must admit. As the rest of your party gathers around and studies the desolate beach, you raise your voice and call out a greeting to anything that might wait within. No response comes, which is probably for the best. “Anyone who wants to join me for a little bit of scouting is welcome to,” you announce, “Caliban, what do you make of this place?”

“No real signs of life,” he replies simply, “Beyond the animals, I mean. I hate to disappoint you, captain, but I don't think we're likely to find a decent bar here.”

Sighing with dramatic remorse, you shrug your shoulders and start towards the edge of the forest. Almost everyone follows you out, save for Blessings, who is... not here. You're not sure where he is, actually.

“He's in his quarters. I think your little game might have upset his stomach,” Grace explains delicately, “He told me that he was fine, but I could hear... retching.”

“Ah,” you reply, “Best to let him rest, then. If we're going to boldly explore somewhere, I'd rather not leave a trail of vomit behind us. It would rather spoil the mood, I think. We should be able to get by without him, don't you think?”

“I think we'll be fine,” the young scholar agrees, “It's like a big family outing!”

“I went on a family outing once,” Caliban remarks glumly, “I was the only survivor.”

Grace's face falls, leaving her to fumble in vain for something – anything – to say.

[1/2]

>Sorry for the delay. Had some issues with Captcha

>>2906371
Lmao Caliban

>>2906371

“Well...” Keziah murmurs, “I didnae expect to see somethin' like THIS here.”

“Do you think it fell from Zenith?” Grace asks, “I suppose it must have done, with how deeply it's planted in the ground. It doesn't look like it was deliberately buried here, that's for sure.”

The object in question is a monolith of white Abrahad stone, about as tall as a man although you can't be entirely sure on that part. It stands at a wild angle, one side almost completely hidden from sight while the opposite end faces up towards the sky. Closing your eyes, you try and imagine something like this plunging down from the roof of the world to land here, of all places. Hopefully, nothing was underneath it at the time.

No obvious path led you to this monolith, but Caliban had been able to find a set of animal tracks. With no other leads to go on, you had followed them to end up... here.

“I can translate these,” Grace announces suddenly, “Quite easily, in fact. Simplified Zenith script – possibly used for children or... ah...” Clearing her throat, she blushes a little before forcing herself to continue. “For the uneducated masses,” she concludes, “If you don't mind my bluntness.”

Gunny laughs, reaching across to tussle her hair. “Well, I can't make head nor tail of it, so I figure that makes me doubly uneducated,” he chuckles, “You're quiet, brother. Something the matter?”

“I've learned to keep my mouth shut around this Abrahad stuff,” you reply, “You never know what might happen.”

“True, true,” Gunny admits, “But I don't think you've got anything to worry about. This is just stone, I reckon. Don't ask me how I know, but I'm feeling pretty sure about it. Call it gut instinct.” Shrugging, he gestures towards the monolith. “Go on then, little sister, don't leave us all in suspense,” he tells Grace, “What does it say?”

Pausing to skim over the harsh, blocky glyphs, Grace bites her lip as she thinks. “All four sides seem to say the same thing,” she begins, “A children's story. Do you think we should get Dubois? Although she's more interested in Nadir things, I suppose... well, either way. In a bygone age, when unclean spirits were free to prey upon good men-”

“Daemons?” Caliban interrupts.

“I assume so,” Grace agrees, frowning at the interruption, “Now where was I...”

As she goes back to read the monolith from the top, something rustles deep within the forest. Immediately, you draw your revolver as Caliban pulls out his hunting knife, his eyes flashing around the area. Slowly, you ease Feanor's blade from its sheath, but the weapon remains dead and inert. If there IS something out there, it's not any kind of unnatural being. A common animal, perhaps, just something rooting about for its next meal.

“Hey,” you hiss to Caliban, “Those tracks we followed. What kind of animal made them?”

Caliban hesitates for a moment. “I don't know,” he admits at last.

[2/3]

>>2906460

Another rustle, this time from the opposite side of the clearing. Either the animal – or whatever it is – has moved, or-

“More than one of them,” Caliban murmurs to you, “At least three, probably more. Two of them are moving to encircle us, the others are hanging back for now. They can make plans, these things.” Tensing up suddenly, his eyes narrow into hard slits. “They're going to rush us,” he continues, “From both sides, I think. Get ready to-”

“Shouldn't we run?” Grace breathes, her empty hands weakly grasping at thin air. She's barely ever carried a pistol since the consul's party, you recall, but now she seems to be regretting that decision. “I mean, back to the ship?” she continues, “We're not far off. If we run...”

“They'll chase us down,” the hunter replies, calm certainty in his voice, “These things, you can't show them any weakness.”

“I thought you didn't know what they were?” Gunny complains, placing his broad hands on Grace's shoulders and pushing her behind him.

“I don't,” Caliban grunts, “But I know their kind well enough. Now we-”

With a crash, a dark brown shape explodes out of the undergrowth in front of you. The closest possible comparison is a wolf, although its proportions don't seem right for that – the legs are too long, the muzzle too short, and it lacks any real tail. What it does have, though, is a mouth full of slavering fangs... and it looks all too eager to use them. Out of the corner of your eye, you see other creatures emerging from the undergrowth, but you hardly have time to dwell on them. You can study them later, when they're dead and you're safe. For now, it's time to fight.

>Calling for a dice roll here. 2D6, aiming to beat 9-10 for a partial success and 11+ for a full success. This is at +1 due to our masterpiece revolver, and I'll take the highest of the first three results!

Rolled 2, 1 + 1 = 4 (2d6 + 1)

>>2906505

Rolled 1, 2 + 1 = 4 (2d6 + 1)

>>2906505

Rolled 4, 3 + 1 = 8 (2d6 + 1)

>>2906505
Where's Henryk when you need him?

rip. Milos went like how he always wanted to: Ripped apart by a pack of Not!Wolves.

Rolled 3, 4 + 1 = 8 (2d6 + 1)

>>2906505
Rolling for fun

>Failure!

They're fast, these things, and they move like no wolves you've ever seen. Indeed, they most more like spiders – scuttling close to the ground with their legs splayed widely out. You find this out when your first shot flies wide of the mark, the malformed beast ducking low under what should have been a killing shot. Firing again and again, you just can't seem to find your mark. Even the best weapon in the world would be no help when these things move in a manner that defies any rational training.

And then, before you have the chance to either lament your aim or reload your revolver, the beast is upon you. Pouncing on you, it drives you down to the ground and pins you with its awful, long-fingered paws. Warm saliva drools onto your face as the beast snarls at you, its fanged mouth dominating what it otherwise an almost human face. Reddened, hungry eyes bore into you as the creature's jaws yawn wide to rip into your face. It lunges down, and-

“No you don't!” Caliban grunts, and the creature is suddenly lifted off of you. With his blade nowhere to be seen, Caliban grabs the beast in a powerful bear hug, tugging it back so that its jaws snap shut on empty air. Before he move to kill it, to snap its neck, the beast squirms around and lashes out at him. All you see is a blur of brown fur, but Caliban lets out a piercing scream and falls back, dropping the beast which promptly prepares to continue the attack.

Just as the beast drops down onto its haunches, a rock strikes it in the blunt muzzle and knocks it back. Gunny is there to take advantage of the opening, driving the end of Saint Alma's staff down like a spear and piercing through the creature's neck. Black blood spurts as he rips the staff free, the creature flopping lifelessly down to the ground. Rising onto unsteady legs, you try and take stock of the situation.

Caliban is down, his face a mask of blood and torn flesh, while another pair of the beasts lie still around you. Grace is the one who snaps back to reality first, grabbing you by the arm and tugging at you. “Caliban!” she cries, “We need to get him to a doctor! The ship...”

“I'll carry him,” Gunny rasps, reaching down to help the wounded hunter up, “Oh hell, his face...”

Fumbling new cartridges into your revolver, you gesture for the others to follow close. “We've driven them off for now,” you order, “Let's get the hell out of here, before any more of those bastards arrive.”

A low gasp of pain rings out as Gunny lifts Caliban to his feet. He's alive, at least, but that could still change.

Just what were those things?

[1/2]

>>2906576
>its fanged mouth dominating what it otherwise an almost human face.
Lovely.

Also are we adding another lost eye to the count?

>>2906576
Caliban always takes the hits for our failures. :(

Much more professional of a bodyguard than I thought he'd be. We owe him another gold bar.

>>2906576
See Grace, this is why Caliban gets paid to be on the ship and you don't.

>>2906576

“When we acquired that new equipment, I had been hoping that we would not need to use it,” Doctor Barnum whispers, stripping off a pair of bloodied gloves and sitting next to you. “You look distraught, captain,” he continues, “I suppose I should not need to ask why.”

“I hate this,” you admit, “When you're a captain, sometimes your crew get hurt. That's part of the business, I get that, but still...”

“Forgive me,” Barnum asks, “But was it not the case that Caliban was hired as your bodyguard, among other things? Then, it seems to me that he was simply carrying out his duties. I would suggest asking him yourself, but he should really be resting. I gave him a dose of analgesia, but it was somewhat less effective than I had been expecting. Any other man would be in a deep sleep by now, but your associate...”

“If anyone's built up a tolerance to that sort of thing, it would be him,” Gunny chuckles, “Milos, brother, the doc's right. Might not help you much to hear this, but... that's life. We all make mistakes, but it ain't always us who pay for them.”

Letting out a low sigh, you rub your sore shoulders. The beast's claws left you with a few scratches here and there, but nothing serious. You barely remember the flight back to the ship, only recalling the cackle of beasts seeming to follow you all the way back. Grace has been holed up in her quarters since getting back, while Gunny has been doing his best to lift your spirits. Nodding mutely, you give Barnum a serious look. “So how is he?” you ask, “And don't give me the easy version.”

“I anticipate no permanent damage. His eyes are intact, as are his nose and mouth. The wounds were deep, yes, but the equipment I have here was sufficient to take care of them. A visit to the hospital will not be required,” Barnum explains slowly, “And... I believe some people find scars to be very attractive.”

Scars. Well, you've all got a few of those, but...

“His wounds have been cleaned and dressed,” the doctor concludes, “I have done all that I can for him. Now, he should rest.”

>The doctor knows best. Let Caliban rest for now
>You need to speak with Caliban, sooner rather than later
>Other

>>2906612
It's always wild animals too. We never roll well against them.

>>2906617
>The doctor knows best. Let Caliban rest for now

>>2906617

>The doctor knows best. Let Caliban rest for now

Leave him like, a thank you card or something.

>>2906617
>The doctor knows best. Let Caliban rest for now

>>2906632
Leave him Priscilla.

“Right,” you decide, “He needs to rest, and... well, anyway.” Shaking your head, you heave yourself to your feet and start to leave. When Doctor Barnum clears his throat, however, you look back around and gesture for him to say his piece. Taking his time to pick the right words, Barnum eventually begins.

“I must say,” he ventures, “I did not expect to find human beings here.”

“Humans?” Gunny blurts out, “No way, doc, you must have gotten the wrong end of the stick here. Whatever those things were, they weren't men.”

“Oh?” Barnum's eyes widen, his hairless brows raised in curiosity, “The wound pattern was a close match for the human hand – albeit with considerable claws. I had assumed that it was, if you will excuse my implication, a man of Nadir who inflicted this wound. How curious...” Tapping a slender finger against his lips as he thinks, Barnum gives you a tiny shrug. “In Nadir, the boundary between man and beast has always been blurred,” he concludes, “Perhaps even more so here, on this isolated isle.”

An awkward silence falls over all three of you. Gunny is the first one to break it, laughing nervously. “Don't worry, brother, Cal's going to be okay. He'll heal up quickly, just you bet on it,” he promises you, “A good night's sleep, then he'll be up and causing trouble again.”

Perhaps. Or perhaps this little episode might have lessened his appetite for trouble.

-

Borrowing paper and pen from Doctor Barnum, you laboriously write out a letter to Caliban – a simple thing that expresses your gratitude, your regret, all those sorts of things. Something for him to read later, just in case he doesn't feel like seeing anyone face to face. Gunny adds his own signature to the letter, which inspires you to get the rest of the crew involved. You wanted to check on Grace as well, so it all works out quite neatly.

When you let yourself into Grace's quarters, you find her carefully cleaning a small automatic pistol. It's not her elegant target pistol, but a plain, practical weapon of Iraklin make. Her expression is pinched, deadly serious, and that doesn't change when you call out her name.

“I've been foolish,” the young scholar admits, “Not just foolish – vain, arrogant even. All this time, I've been assuming that someone else would be there to protect me. Well, I'm not going to let myself be a burden any longer. From now on, I'm going to pull my own weight.”

The unprompted speech gives you a moment's pause. It's almost as though she had been rehearsing it in her head, waiting for you to arrive so she could read out her lines. Blinking away your confusion, you recall why you came here in the first place. “I'm glad to hear that,” you tell her, holding up the letter, “But I've been getting signatures for this. For Caliban, you know?”

“Oh yes,” Grace agrees slowly, putting down the pistol, “I suppose I really ought to sign it, shouldn't I?”

[1/2]

>>2906669

As Grace adds a small note to the bottom of the letter, she glances back up at you. “That story on the monolith,” she begins quietly, “I've been wondering about how true it might be. It spoke of a time when daemons freely roamed the land, without needing to be called down and summoned. Do you think the land was ever truly like that?”

The question takes you by surprise. “I... don't know,” you admit honestly, “I'm surprised you're still thinking about it.”

“Mm, well, I suppose I'm interested in these things,” Grace replies with a vague gesture, “And really, you know how it is.”

You certainly do – it's a distraction, something to take her mind off of things. For your part, you've got plenty of bad habits to fall back on, mostly involving alcohol. Nodding to her, you take the completed letter and head for Caliban's quarters to fetch Priscilla. A bit of company – particularly company that can't stare at his injuries – might help to keep his spirits up.

-

“I hope you're not going to be long down there,” Freddy complains, the radio link rendering her voice tinny and distant, “Consul Hess insists on treating me like some kind of formal guest – I can't remember the last time I felt so uncomfortable. I only managed to get away by making up some... awful lie about aerodrome fees. He didn't believe me, of course, but at least he let me leave. I think I might actually prefer a jail cell...”

“It's a hard life sometimes,” you agree, “We shouldn't be long. Was Hess happy with the letter?”

“He wasn't unhappy,” the pilot replies carefully, “I think things are... what's that saying, better than I expected but worse than I hoped? He seems to think he can work things through. How did things go with the wyrm?”

“That... might be easier to tell you in person. Would you believe me if I told you that the wyrm was the easy part?” sighing, you rub your aching brow before continuing, “Well, no matter. We should be there...”

>As soon as possible. You're ready to leave
>Eventually. There's something else you want to do on the island
>Other

>>2906734
>As soon as possible. You're ready to leave

We can come back once we're better prepared for the spiderwolfhumans.

>>2906734
>As soon as possible. You're ready to leave
Grace and the other translator lady can talk their findings over on the way.

>>2906734
>As soon as possible. You're ready to leave
Mark this island on the map.

>>2906734
I'm a bit torn. We are on a timetable with Hess and the attack, but I feel we'll never have time to go back to this island again. Unless that monolith was the only thing of interest.

>As soon as possible. You're ready to leave

“We'll be there as soon as possible,” you conclude, “Just got to get the engines warmed up and we'll be off. The new upgrades worked perfectly, by the way.”

“Well, I'm not surprised,” Freddy replies evenly, “The chief engineer knows what she's doing.” With that, she ends the call and leaves you to get to work. As you start the engines, the first few drops of rain begin to spatter against the ship. Woken by the hum of the engines gathering power, Dwight opens one eye and squints at you.

“Go back to sleep,” you tell him, “I'll take it from here.”

“My kind of orders,” he mumbles, letting his eye drift closed again.

-

Flying normally relaxes you, but this time your thoughts just won't slip into their usual rhythm. Wild ideas keep chasing each other around your head, nightmarish concepts tugging your attention in all manner of different directions. Lost families of bestial once-men war with rampaging, unbound daemons for the full focus of your thoughts. It's both tiring and tiresome, about as exhausting as hiking across broken ground. You consider waking Dwight, just so you have someone to talk to, but the idea never gains traction. He's not the right kind of person to talk to at a time like this. He's not... part of this, whatever “this” is. He's a hired hand, that's about it.

So, taking one hand from the controls, you drawn Feanor's ruined sword and wait for the apparition to appear. He doesn't disappoint you, taking form – in his usual formless kind of way – near the front observation window. “Hey, you,” you begin, your voice pitched low, “I want to talk with you.”

“To reap the benefits of my great wisdom,” the apparition responds, his words bearing the feeling of mocking contempt despite being perfectly silent, “Very well. We walk the same path, after all. It would be cruel of me to deny you this boon.”

You're already starting to regret this. “Daemons,” you ask him, “Was there ever a time when they could just go wherever they liked, without needing to be called up?”

“Ah...” Feanor sighs, “There was such a time, yes. It was a primal age, a more mythic time when any man with the strength and will could become a hero. Lives were often short but always vibrant. The tales that men now tell do not – cannot – capture the true feeling of it. Weep, for you may never know that glory.”

“Huh,” you grunt, “But what was life really like back then?” When Feanor leaves this question unanswered – unless a mocking sneer counts as an answer – you start to suspect something. “Wait a minute,” you press, “Did you actually live in this time, or are you just telling me your own tales?”

His silence is all the answer you need to hear. Disgusted, you shove the blade back into its sheath and dismiss the phantom.

[1/2]

>>2906818
Busted.

>>2906818
If we ever get tied to a ghost weapon as a spirit we should be way more helpful than Feanor.
We could possess our daemon blood gun!

>>2906818

When you land at the aerodrome, setting the Spirit of Helena down beside the Eliza, Freddy gives you a grateful wave. Even from the bridge of the ship, you can see her breathing a sigh of relief as she hurries across to meet you. Hess can be a little eccentric, true, but could it really have been that bad for her?

Well, you suppose she's had some bad experiences with formal events. Wasting no time at all, she boards the ship and meets you on the bridge. As soon as she sees you, though, her expression darkens. “Bad news?” she guesses, “You've got that sort of look on your face.”

“It's Caliban. He's in the infirmary now,” you explain, hesitating before recounting exactly what happened. Starting from the oddly playful encounter with the wyrm and ending with the tribe of... creatures, you leave nothing out. When you're finished, the pilot looks just as glum as you feel. With a faintly disgusted look on her face, she takes a seat and sighs.

“Aerial bombardment,” she decides, “That sounds like a good way to deal with an island like that.”

“You might be right there,” you admit with a wan laugh, “On the other hand, that place has some kind of connection with the white wyrm. It seems like something can control the beast, and I'm willing to bet that that something is on – or under – that island. We just don't know what it is yet.”

“The beast's mother?” Freddy suggests, “Do wyrms even work like that?” Immediately answering her own question with a shrug, she dismisses the idea with a wave of her hand. “I'll leave that kind of talk to the scholars,” she decides, “Right now, I'm just glad to have a break from the consul and-”

Static blurts from the radio. “Vaandemere?” Hess asks, “I'm told that you've landed at the aerodrome. I do apologise for the inconvenience, but I'm going to have to ask you to drop by – immediately. The situation appears to have changed.”

Slumping back in her chair, Freddy lets out a heavy sigh.

>I think I'm going to pause things here for today. Into the Skies will continue tomorrow, starting at the same usual time
>Thank you for your contributions today!

>>2906890
Never a dull moment Freddy.

Thanks for running.

What kind of terrible formal hospitality did Hess subject her to?

>>2906890
Thanks for running!

Can we buy toys for the Wyrms to play with, so we don't have to risk ourselves and our ships?

>>2906905
>What kind of terrible formal hospitality did Hess subject her to?
Long, boring discussions of ancestry, family trees and political marriages - nowhere near as interesting as trashy romance novels!

>>2906940
Well, the skies might be a good deal safer if they all stayed in their basements playing World of Wyrmcraft

>>2907019
>Wyrmcraft
but that's just an airship, and those are everywhere!

>>2907019
>All the wyverns are NEETs chilling in their respective islands.
>They only wake up because people/pleonite engines mess up their ping on World of Wyrmcraft

>>2907626
Maybe it's related to natural deposits of Abrahad. Like if they develop as spirits within the Abrahad, and when exposed to enough Pleonite they get drawn out into the world.

Maybe they aren't made from Pleonite, but instead are able to manipulate the energies and said energy is strong enough to allow them to in turn affect the world.

Pleonite cannons might only give them more energy, explaining their ineffectiveness. They seem too agile for missiles, and if they're just manipulating their structure and it's not actually an organized system that can be disrupted from damage then it's just cosmetic damage.

It seems like the pleonite core would have to be damaged directly or disrupted by overloading the amount of energy they could handle.

Or maybe not.

>>2908358
Or we could just you know hit it with our sword

File: Milos Vaandemere.jpg (607 KB, 1406x2000)

607 KB JPG

It's only after you arrive at the consul's office that you realise something – you've not washed or changed your clothes since Caliban was injured. That explains the strange looks that the guards on the door gave you, at least. You'd go back to the ship and freshen up, but a little dirt and blood is the least of your worries right now. Judging by the grim expressions that both Consul Hess and Administrator Gehrard wear, they're not especially concerned about your attire either.

“First of all, the good news,” Hess begins, “We believe that a deal can be struck between Iraklis and Carthul. We're almost ready to make things official – once that happens, it'll have to be put to a vote. A... joint training exercise with the Carths, that's how we're planning to pitch it - the unofficial implication being that we're aiming to assess their military capacity. They'll be doing the same thing, I'm sure.”

“It's a vote that we'll win. I've made sure of that,” Gehrard agrees, “And I've quietly reached out to Chancellor Wellager. She is in agreement with us about what must be done. That, I'm afraid, is about all of the good news that we have to share with you.”

“The bad news is, the Carths are asking for certain concessions – the release of some political prisoners among other things. Inconvenient for us, but not unacceptable,” Hess laments, pouring himself a glass of fine brandy, “No, the issue is Carter.”

“Carter,” you repeat, “He's still down in the basement suite, then?”

“Yes he is, saying precisely nothing. That's not unexpected – he's been trained not to crack under the pressure, and that's exactly what he's doing,” a flash of regret – genuine regret – shows on Hess' face here, and he hesitates for a moment. It's not hard to guess why. Carter was more than just his aide, after all – the two men were good friends, and this kind of betrayal isn't going to be easy to deal with. “No, we have other problems,” Hess finishes, “About an hour ago, a message arrived for Carter.”

“A coded message. Specifically, it used an out of date military code – dating back to when Faulkner was first declared missing in action. As you might imagine, we're fairly certain of who sent the message,” Gehrard explains, picking up the thread that Hess left dangling, “We were able to decode it easily enough, even if it did take us some time to recognise what we were looking at. These sorts of codes are changed regularly, you see. Security reasons.”

You don't like where this is going. You have no idea where this is going, but you know that you don't like it. Slowly, you nod for Gehrard to continue.

[1/2]

>>2908759

“The message was simply – a request for a meeting. Pugmire trading post, tonight,” the administrator explains, sliding a flimsy slip of paper across the desk towards you, “Carter is expected to show up. When he fails to appear, Faulkner – if that is truly who Carter is supposed to be meeting – will very likely realise that his conspiracy has been broken open. On the other hand, if we send a team to eliminate Faulkner...”

“And we are considering that option,” Hess points out, “As preposterous as that sounds to me, even knowing what I know.”

“If we eliminate Faulkner, his fellow conspirators will learn that something is wrong,” Gehrard concludes, “As you can imagine, we're all very perturbed by the situation. All outcomes appear to be a loss for us... save, perhaps, one possibility.” Leaning forwards and tenting his fingers, Gehrard studies you for a ponderous moment. “Faulkner and Carter are conspiring with Eishin. Eishin, for his part, values you for as-yet unknown reasons,” he muses, “Is my assessment of the situation accurate?”

“Accurate enough,” you reply slowly. Things are starting to become clearer now, and your first guess was right. Not good at all.

“We would like you to meet with Faulkner in Carter's place. Do your best to assure him that everything is as it should be,” Gehrard concludes, “I understand that this will be difficult. Carter is refusing to cooperate, to tell us what Faulkner might want or if they shared any code phrases. We can have our team standing by in case of an emergency, but you would need to go in alone. The situation, as I'm sure you realise, is far from ideal.”

That's an understatement – it's a fucking mess. If this goes awry and Faulkner learns that Carter has been captured, word might find its way back to Eishin's ears. That could very well make the rest of your life that much more difficult. Eliminating Faulkner could delay things, but not for that long. Trying to deal with him, though? You'd be putting your neck on the line, with little to no backup. This time, Caliban wouldn't be there to take the blow for you.

What a mess.

“Carter,” you suggest slowly, “What if we were to go together? He might be able to smooth things over with Faulkner.”

“He might, yes, if he was inclined to – which, I must confess, I cannot imagine he would be. He has little to gain by helping you, and a lot to gain by revealing his capture to Faulkner,” Gehrard shakes his head, “I cannot, in good conscience, allow Carter to leave this building. The security risk is simply too great.” Sighing, Gehrard moves to rise. “I'll contact my team,” he decides, “They can be ready to eliminate Faulkner when we arrives in Pugmire. That is has come to this saddens me, but...”

>Remain silent, allow Gehrard to send his team
>Volunteer to meet with Faulkner
>Ask some questions... (Write in)
>Other

>>2908763
>Volunteer to meet with Faulkner
>Ask some questions... (Write in)
"What excuse could I give to explain why Carter sent me in his stead? I can't exactly say he's just tied up at the moment."

>>2908763
>>Volunteer to meet with Faulkner
This will only go well.

>>2908763
Volunteer to meet with Faulkner
What can go wrong

Can we bring up that wolf man iland we found?

>>2908793
I'd want to keep the island in our holster right now. I don't want Iraklis messing with the Wyrms

“No, wait. I'll meet with Faulkner,” you tell Gehrard, holding up a hand to still him, “Taking him out would be... messy. This way, we might just have a chance of settling this matter quietly.” For the time being, you silently add to yourself, even a peaceful resolution to this will only be delaying the inevitable. “I need some information, however,” you continue, “What should I tell Faulkner when I show up instead of Carter? I can't exactly give him the truth, can I?”

“I've thought about this. Tell him that I sent Carter on an urgent errand – meeting with a fellow collector who was looking to sell certain items. It's something that I've done on several occasions already, and Faulkner would know as much,” Hess nods to himself, a sly smile forming on his lips, “Additionally, it would not be uncommon for collectors to keep such business quiet, so you'll have an explanation for avoiding any solid details.”

It's a plausible excuse, although perhaps not one that would stand up to vigorous questioning. You start to raise another question, but then Gehrard speaks over you. “If Faulkner cannot be dealt with peacefully, then he should be eliminated. Whatever else happens, he cannot be allowed to send a warning back to Eishin,” the administrator warns you, “We're looking into accelerating the plan. I only hope that the Carths won't make things difficult for us. Your colleague mentioned that you've met with their Hierophant – would you say that he's a cooperative type?”

It's been a long time since you spoke with Piers Milleux, and it was only a brief conversation while it lasted, but you recall what you can. Cooperating with the Iraklins, however, had not been part of your discussions. “He's not so dogmatic, I think. He's more... flexible than some parts of the church,” you offer with a shrug, “I think he'll be willing to see the advantage in cooperation.”

“Good. That's good,” Gehrard sits back down, scratching at the scar on his cheek, “Pugmire is isolated – an excellent place for an ambush. I don't doubt that Faulkner will have guards with him, but you won't have that luxury. As I said, I can have my people standing by, but they won't be able to reach you immediately if the situation demands it. Keep that in mind. Do you have any further questions?”

“I do, actually. Gehrard – you used to be stationed in Nadir, right?” you ask, taking out your map and pointing to what you've come to think of as the wyrm's den, “Do you know anything about this island?”

“Apparently uninhabited, too small to support any kind of fortified position, no valuable resources that we know of,” Gehrard answers promptly, recalling the details from memory, “An unimportant scrap of land, designed “Island Fourteen”. Not worth thinking about, in my opinion.”

Well. Your opinions might just differ there, but he doesn't need to know that.

[1/2]

>>2908800
Can Keziah or Mauve whip us up a changeling, or are those Eishin faction only units?

>>2908808
I imagine Faulker is too used to changelings now anyways.

>>2908810
Used to seeing them maybe. Has he needed to detect one recently? Eishin is the only one who has them, it might fool him just because he isn't expexting it. We'd have to go too to cover anything it wouldn't know, but I'd say it's worth a shot.

>>2908808
>Maeve does possess the skills to create a changeling, but it wouldn't be ready before the meeting. They take some time to grow, you see

>>2908826
I was just wondering, why wasn't masque with us on the island?

>>2908829
He's a lonely boi

>>2908829
He is very forgettable. You bringing him up right now might be the only time we've talked about him since the beach episode.

>>2908833
Leaving him in the kingdom might have been the fated path that we defied.

>>2908800

“Curious about it, are you?” Hess asks, leaning over to peer at your map, “Heard any rumours about the place?”

“Not really. I just saw it from the air recently and wondered,” you reply smoothly, “But, as you say, it's not really worth thinking about – especially not while I have Faulkner to concentrate on.”

That settles the matter, apparently. Nodding with satisfaction, Gehrard reaches into his pocket and passes something across to you – a medal engraved with a pair of crossed pistols, Carter's name written beneath them in a tiny, flowery script. “We confiscated this from Carter. It's an old pistol shooting award. Provided to you by Carter, you could say, as a mark of his trust,” the administrator explains, “With Carter refusing to speak to us, this is all the help that we can give you.”

And you'll take everything that they can give you. After handing the badge over, Gehrard excuses himself in order to contact his “reliable people”. As he leaves, Hess flashes you an apologetic smile. “This really is something we threw together at the last minute,” he admits to you, “If you have any preparations you want to make, we'll assist you in any way we can.”

There isn't long to wait until nightfall, especially with travel time taken into account, so you'll need to figure out how best to prepare for the mission.

Where to start...

>Just spend the time with your crew. You'll need to be calm going into this
>Spend the time searching through Carter's quarters. Perhaps he left something useful there?
>Spend the time interrogating Carter himself. Maybe he'll be more willing to talk to you?
>You had something else in mind... (Write in)
>Other

>>2908829
>I wonder about that. He's not normally the type to shy away from a fight, so he must have had a pretty good reason!

>>2908838
>Spend the time interrogating Carter himself. Maybe he'll be more willing to talk to you?

Can we delegate Freddy and Grace to go through Carter's quarters for intel?

>>2908838
>Search his quarters for info

>>2908842
I'd rather have Freddy talk to him? Maybe she can get through his weird Iraklin mind.

>>2908847
The other Iraklins already tried. I don't think Freddy will have better luck. What Milos has over them is a deeper understanding about the immortal ruler plan and Eishin in general. That might open some more doors.

>>2908838
>>Spend the time interrogating Carter himself. Maybe he'll be more willing to talk to you?

>>2908838
>Spend the time interrogating Carter himself. Maybe he'll be more willing to talk to you?
maybe we can embellish the story a bit by saying Milos personally has some beef with Eishin. Make up some convoluted tale of an assassination to distract the giant army flying over yonder

“I wonder. Would you let some of my colleagues take a look through Carter's quarters? He might have left something behind that we could use,” you tell Hess, “I'd search myself, but I'd like to speak with Carter. He might be more willing to talk to me – I won't say that I'm a friendly face, but I'm not an Iraklin. Different approaches and all that.”

Hess lets out a weary sigh, then nods his agreement. “I've been giving Carter a friendly face to talk to as often as I can, but it's made no difference,” he laments, “But if you think you can get him to open up, then please – be my guest. Your fellows can search all they like, but I have one request. Be... respectful. I owe Carter that much, at least.”

“Of course,” you assure him, “My people will use the utmost discretion.”

Probably.

-

While Freddy and Grace search through Carter's painfully neat quarters, you allow one of the uniformed guards to escort you down to the basement cell. It hasn't changed a bit since you were last here, but Carter has certainly deteriorated. Patchy stubble clings to his hollow cheeks, while his eyes are reddened with a lack of sleep. You don't see any obvious injuries, nothing to suggest that his interrogation has turned forceful, but the squalid conditions are clearly taking their toll on him.

With a terrible, wounded dignity, Carter meets your eyes and nods a greeting. “You look like I feel,” he says simply, eyeing up the grime clinging to your clothes, “But you, at least, seem unharmed.”

“A friend of mine got hurt. Nothing fatal, I'm glad to say,” you answer brusquely, “You had a message, by the way. From-”

“So I've heard,” Carter interrupts, “You'll forgive me if I don't immediately spill all of my secrets, though. The consul was here earlier, asking me all the questions that you're thinking about asking me. I won't answer them.”

You can believe that. Shifting in your chair ever so slightly, you consider the approach you'll take. You have little doubt that Carter has endured countless hours of direct questioning, but perhaps a more indirect approach might serve to loosen his tongue. “So how did you and Faulkner first meet?” you ask casually, “Was it professional, or did you meet outside of work? Some kind of formal event, say?”

Carter stares blandly at you, as if trying to figure out the purpose behind your question. “I don't seem to recall,” he answers eventually, a stubborn note in his voice.

“That's fine. Think it over, see if it comes back to you,” you urge, leaning back and feigning a relaxed yawn, “We've got plenty of time, you and I.”

Chains rattle as Carter shuffles in his chair, his manacles rattling against the battered metal table. In the back of your mind, you picture a clock ticking away towards sunset. Plenty of time? You wish.

[1/2]

>>2908875

“You told me something, back when I... took you for that little drive,” Carter muses, breaking his stubborn silence at last, “You said that Eishin wanted you alive. I've been thinking about that for a while now, and I can't seem to understand why. Faulkner, I can understand – he's our intermediary, after all – but I can't figure out why Eishin wants you to live. Perhaps you can enlighten me?”

“I wish I could. Eishin seems to think that my actions will profit him something,” you reply honestly, “It's getting pretty annoying, not knowing what he's got in mind for me. Maybe if we pooled our information, we could figure something out. I mean, this idea you have of creating some undying leader – how does Eishin profit from that?”

“We agreed to provide him with someone he...” Carter begins, stopping himself before he can say anything else. Scowling at you for a moment more, he lets out a humourless laugh. “Isolation can do more to loosen a man's tongue than any torture,” he mutters, muted anger in his voice, “It was a trade. That's all you need to know.”

Thinking back, you recall the woman you saw sleeping in Caldwell's little house. He had claimed that Eishin wouldn't let her leave – was she the price that Carter's people had paid? “I suppose sacrificing one life isn't much to you people,” you offer, a deliberate taunt in your voice. Carter snorts at the blatant ruse, refusing to rise to the bait. “Look, I'll be blunt – I'm going to meet with Faulkner. If things go bad, one of us might end up dead,” you tell the prisoner, “I figure you don't want that to happen. Not if there's any way to prevent it, right? So help me out here – this doesn't have to turn into a massacre.”

Considering this for a long moment, Carter slowly shakes his head. Although his expression betrays a hint of what seems to be genuine regret, he stubbornly maintains his silence. Is that it, then? Is that all you're going to tease out of him?

>Finish your interrogation. This isn't getting you anywhere
>Press Carter for more answers... (Write in)
>Other

>The next post might be delayed a little. I have to run a small errand, so I apologise for any additional delays

>>2908960
Going to need a few minutes before I can sit down and do write ins. Be there in a few

>>2908960
>"Look, you're obviously very dedicated to your country, even if you have the wrong ideas on how to benefit it. The thing is, Iraklis is committed to taking down Eishin, to the point that they're making concessions to Carth for a joint strike. What do you hope to achieve by refusing to cooperate at this point? It's just going to hurt your nation and Wellager herself for supporting the attack if Eishin knows it's coming."

>>2908960
>>2908960
>Press Carter for more answers... (Write in)
Carter, Eishin is going down. This is pretty much set in stone now. Both Iraklis and Carth are putting aside their differences for one second to fight him and I'll be on the ground plucking his eyes by killing his witches. Faulker doesn't need to be another casualty in this fight. The secrets of the root don't need to disappear either. Like I said I'll be on the ground and who knows what I'll find. Help me out here. Leaving things like they are is only going to guarantee the mission you gave up everything for is a complete failure.

>Back at the computer now. Closing this vote to any further submissions, and writing now
>Thank you for your patience!

Tapping your finger against the table, matching the tick of the clock inside your head, you give Carter a few minutes more to decide whether or not to speak. His silence remains unbroken, and you shrug your shoulders ever so slightly. “Look, Carter, you're obviously very dedicated to the nation. I can respect that, I really can, but you're not going to change anything with this stubborn act. I'm guessing that you don't hear the news in here, right?” you guess, “You get a lot of questions, but no answers.”

“Not an entirely accurate summary of the situation,” Carter admits, a faint glint of curiosity showing in his eyes, “Should I assume, then, that something significant is happening outside?”

“Significant? I'll say,” you tell him with a coy smile, “Iraklis and Carthul are set to join forces, all in order to take down Eishin. At this point, it's not a matter of IF Eishin is going down, but when. The way things are shaping up, Faulkner is going to get dragged down with Eishin. It doesn't have to be this way, though. Just think about it, if we take Eishin's camp then we stand a chance of claiming every one of his secrets – including the undying power he's offering you. You know me, Carter, I'm good at digging up these secrets.”

Carter lets out a curt laugh at this. “The consul certainly seems to think so,” he concedes, and you sense his resolve faltering a little. He hides it well, but the idea of Carthul and Iraklis joins forces has shaken him. You can't really blame him for that – the idea of the two great powers cooperating for anything has always seemed futile... until now.

“This stubborn act is only going to make things worse for everyone. For you, for the nation, for Chancellor Wellager herself, even,” you conclude, “Come on, Carter. Help us all out here!”

Straining at his manacles, Carter awkwardly rubs his brow before a rough sigh escapes him. “Faulkner will likely ask you a question when you meet. He'll ask you how my mistress is doing,” a pained frown briefly crosses Carter's face as he tells you this, “In return, you should tell him that Greta is fat and happy. Do you understand?”

“Greta is fat and happy,” you repeat, “I... don't understand. Some inside joke?”

“Something like that,” Carter grunts, clearly unwilling to elaborate, “It's a code we use. But tell me – were you telling the truth about...”

“Carthul and Iraklis? I promise you, not a word of that was false,” you assure him, “Why do you ask?”

“Well now...” the prisoner breathes, his expression showing a heady mixture of confusion and unexpected hope, “This might actually work.”

[1/2]

>>2909130

You ask Carter a few more questions, but he's unable to answer them. He doesn't know who the woman Eishin wanted is, only that he wanted her badly. Faulkner handled that side of everything, jealously hoarding every secret he could. Making himself indispensable, you figure, too important to be written out of the scene. It's starting to seem like Faulkner has his sights set on a high position in whatever new order he's been dreaming up.

As you're bringing the interrogation to a close, one last question occurs to you. “I don't want to seem ungrateful, but... why me?” you ask with a faint shrug, “Surely I'm not the first person to come in here and appeal to the good of the nation?”

“No, you're not,” Carter tells you, “But, strange as it may seem, when you were the one saying it... I actually believed it.”

Strange indeed.

-

Returning to the upper level, you find Freddy and Grace waiting for you with the products of their search. A single imago is all they could find, but you take it anyway. It shows both Faulkner and Carter, along with a number of other men – military officers – that you don't recognise. Faulkner is presenting Carter with a medal, perhaps the same shooting medal that Gehrard gave you. “I might not be needing this,” you tell the pair with an apologetic smile, “But good work on finding it.”

“Grace was the one who found it, not me,” Freddy explains, “It was in the medal case. A hidden compartment.”

“I had a jewellery box that was rather similar when I was younger,” Grace adds, “I'd hide things in it that I didn't want father to see. Things like-”

“Hold on a minute,” the pilot interrupts, putting her hand on Grace's shoulder, “That's not something you should discuss in the presence of a gentleman.”

“Oh?” the younger girl replies with a raised eyebrow, “What about the captain, then?”

“Very funny, you two,” you grunt, giving them both a withering look as you try to keep a smile from your face, “Is that all you can tell me about this?”

“It's not much, I know. I asked the consul for a little more information – apparently Carter came second in this competition, beaten by a man name... Burgess, I think it was. Not particularly important information, but the context could have helped pass you off as being closer to Carter than you actually are,” Freddy tells you with a shrug, “But if you say you won't need it, then I trust your judgement. If you're supposed to be in Pugmire by nightfall, though, we don't have much more time to waste. Gehrard's team should be preparing now. Are you ready to leave?”

>I am, yes. Let's get started
>There's something I need to do first... (Write in)
>Other

>>2909287
>I am, yes. Let's get started

>>2909287
>>I am, yes. Let's get started

>>2909287
>I am, yes. Let's get started

We'll crack you one day Carter. One day....

“I'm ready, yes,” you reply, “Let's get this started.”

Nodding firmly, Freddy turns and marches out. Together, you hasten back to the aerodrome and approach the Eliza as Grace hurries back aboard the Spirit of Helena. She would just be getting in the way coming with you, especially if it comes to a gunfight. Climbing aboard the skiff, however, you find that you're not alone. Masque sits in the back of the cramped craft, his aura of menace seeming to fill the entire area. Sitting opposite him, you stare at the inhuman creature for a long moment before you can bring yourself to speak.

“So...” you ask, “You're coming too?”

“Just in case,” the daemon-thing rumbles, “The night wind carries a smell of blood – there is potential for a great dying tonight. I would not want to miss such a spectacle.”

“I... see,” you mutter, glancing across as Freddy fires up the skiff's engines, “You certainly missed a fight before. We could have used your help, too.” Masque does not answer this, the expressionless glass lenses of his iron mask staring blankly at you. “C'mon, at least try and give me an excuse,” you press, “You oversleep or something?”

“I do not sleep,” Masque corrects you, “That was... different. It was not fortuitous ground – something sleeps upon that island, and I did not wish to disturb it.” A low growl escapes him, irritation giving his voice an animal roughness. “I do not fear men. What I sensed on that island, I... perhaps I did fear it,” he confesses, “Or perhaps I merely did not understand it. What I sensed there is beyond the comprehension of one such as I.”

He's not talking about those deformed creatures. The wyrm, then? Masque looks away from you, then, his whole demeanour closing up as he starts to sharpen his sword with a small grindstone. Rather than waste your breath on any further, futile questions, you simply lie back and close your eyes. “Greta,” you mutter to yourself, “Fat and happy.”

“Captain?” Freddy asks, “Did you say something?”

“Just talking to myself,” you answer.

-

“I can't believe you can sleep at a time like this,” the Iraklin scolds, shaking you awake, “We're here. Pugmire doesn't look any better by night, does it?” Frowning, she takes a bulky pistol out of her belt and holds it out to you. “Here, take this. A flare pistol,” Freddy explains, “Reinforcements are holding position above us. If you run into any trouble, fire that off and they'll move in. Don't go shooting it off by accident, though.”

“Not the first time a woman's told me that,” you mutter, rubbing the sleep from your eyes, “Okay, I get it. Wait here for now – Faulkner will want to meet me alone. Will you be fine here?”

Freddy glances across to Masque, who returns her gaze, then shrugs.

[1/2]

>>2909413

The flare pistol feels heavy and bulky against your hip as you stride across the tiny, squalid village. Pugmire isn't what you'd call a thriving place, but now it seems deader than ever. Ahead of you, the trading post is the only building with lights shining in the windows. Feeling as though paranoid eyes are following you with every step you take, you approach the large building and knock heavily on the door. It opens a moment later, and you find yourself staring down the barrel of a gun.

“Uh... good evening?” you announce, studying the man in front of you. He's dressed in drab civilian garb, but his posture betrays military training and the pistol he carries is a cut above the average piece. Scowling at you, the guard keeps his pistol trained on you as he stands aside to reveal a single table set up further inside. Sitting at the table, Faulkner watches and waits. Gesturing for you to approach, the officer draws his own pistol and make a show of loading a round.

As you cross the room, you take a quick look around the room. A raised balcony runs around the upper floor, and you see another pair of men lurking nearby with their rifles ready for use. Faulkner, you suspect, is not messing around here. When you sit opposite him, Faulkner gives you a hard stare. “I was expecting someone else,” he begins simply.

“Carter couldn't make it. An urgent errand from the consul,” you explain, “He asked me to come in his place.”

“I'm sure that he did,” Faulkner remarks, doubt dripping from his words, “Carter... do tell me, how is his mistress doing?”

Here it is, the moment of truth. “Greta?” you reply casually, “She's fat and happy, just as she should be.”

Faulkner pauses here, long enough for you to wonder if you've fallen into his trap. Carter could have fooled you, giving you the wrong phrase to use – for all you know, Greta might mean “I'm compromised” or something worse. Then, at long last, the rogue officer raises his hand and gesturing for his men to lower their rifles. “You surprised me, but perhaps you're telling the truth after all,” he tells you, “Or, perhaps Carter's tongue is a little looser than I thought. Why did he send you, though?”

“We have a mutual friend, the three of us,” you offer, “Friends in low places.”

“Eishin, yes. He's mentioned you. Asked me to pull your file some time ago – I didn't even know he could read,” Faulkner casually checks his pistol over as he talks, rather deliberately keeping the barrel pointed your way all the while. “So you're a part of all this. I never realised,” he continues, “You're in this because... why exactly?”

Another test – and this time, you don't have an answer prepared for you. What exactly does he want to hear?

>I'm just the hired help, that's all
>I have my own reasons. Leave it at that
>I have my reasons... (Write in)
>Other

>>2909538
>Other

"Ask Eishin if you want the answer to that."

It's the truth

>>2909538
"Self preservation really. I ended up taking a sword of his he wanted and he's caused me nothing but grief since. You can ask Segharl for the details on that if you want. So I decided to extend an olive branch and work with him. If playing spy here and moving messages gets him off my back, so be it."

>>2909538

>I have my own reasons. Leave it at that

Maybe he'll be so curious he'll forget to be suspicious.

>>2909538
>>I have my own reasons as I'm sure you have yours. Leave it at that

>>2909538
Seconding >>2909553

>>2909553
Supporting

“I have my own reasons, just as I'm sure that you have yours,” you answer slowly, “Why don't we leave it at that?” Leaning back in your chair, you spread your hands wide as if to welcome any bullet that Faulkner feels like sending your way. This, as much as anything else, seems to bring a lopsided smile – more a smirk – to his face. After checking his pistol over one last time, he slides it into his holster.

“Your own reasons,” he states at last.

“Ask Eishin if you want a better answer,” you add, “Sometimes, it seems like he knows more than I do.”

“He does have a habit of that,” Faulkner agrees, “He's weak that way. He would never admit it, and he would gut any of his men who hinted at it, but he's grown reliant on... unorthodox means of gathering information. No honest man would stoop to the methods he uses.” Sighing heavily, Faulkner lifts his eyepatch and rubs the gnarled scars beneath it with one knuckle. There's something mocking about the way he does it, as if he's trying to make you flinch. “Well then, I think I understand how things are now,” he concludes, “Mutual distrust. Perfect.”

“You prefer it this way?” you ask, his comment taking you by surprise.

“Call it a survival instinct,” the rogue officer sneers, “Very well then – you can bring this message back to Carter. Tell him that the chancellor's birthday will be a fine day to celebrate. Her gift is almost ready to be delivered. Nice and simple, you see?”

Then their plans are almost complete. The chancellor's birthday... you don't recall the exact date, but that's not far away. “That's it?” you press, “That's all you wanted to tell Carter?”

“Were you expecting something more?” Faulkner wonders, giving you a challenging look. Shaking your head, you rise to your feet when he flaps a dismissive hand at you. Feeling his gaze boring into you all the while, you walk out towards the door. You almost make it out of there.

Almost.

A heavy hand falls on your shoulder as you reach for the door, the disguised soldier grabbing you in a tight grip. “Oh yes,” Faulkner announces, “There's just one more thing...”

>I think I'm going to pause things here for today. I'll continue this tomorrow, same usual time
>I apologise for the delays today!

>>2909668
Thanks for running.

>>2909668
Thanks for running!

Just how many coded phrases do Carter and Faulkner have?

>>2909782
Broadly speaking, too many to remember correctly. It all gets very confusing, especially when they mix up "the enemies are among us" with "let's order another round of drinks". It's a hard life, being part of a secret conspiracy!

>>2909861
That must have been awkward the first few times it happened.

>>2910063
Oh, it's fine really!
There were no witnesses left to tell the tale

>>2910112
>Wyrms are real
>Wait, why would Carthul actually-
>No, uh, Wyrms ACTUALLY ARE REAL AND THEY FLY FASTER THAN OUR SHIPS. .....AND the Carths are coming

>>2909668
Honestly? If we HAD trusted him, would he have returned it?

Honestly I don't trust him to think that Carter didn't flip.

File: Fredrika Lhaus.jpg (83 KB, 595x1000)

83 KB JPG

Was there some mistake you made? Some tiny detail you missed, or some word you shouldn't have used?

When the soldier releases his grip on your shoulder, you slowly turn around to face Faulkner as he prowls closer. Every inch the predator, he approaches you with absolute confidence – but then, it's easy to be confident when you have a number of heavily armed soldiers backing you up. It's rather more difficult to stand firm when you're alone, but somehow you manage it. Meeting his gaze, you shrug and feign nonchalance. Nobody speaks for a moment, with the tapping of rain against the ceiling as the only background noise.

Swift as a striking snake, Faulkner reaches out and plucks the flare pistol from your belt. “A type three flare projector, I believe. The new model. I always found that the type two was prone to light primer strikes,” he muses, turning the blocky pistol over in his hands as he studies it, “I'm glad to see that you're keeping your equipment up to date. Still... a strange thing to bring to a meeting like this, isn't it?”

Trust an Iraklin to notice that, of all things. “I need some way to signal my pilot, don't I?” you reply slowly, making up the excuse one word at a time, “Sometimes she gets bored and takes to flying about. Terribly inconvenient, but that's women for you.”

The soldier next to you chuckles a little at that, but he stops as soon as Faulkner shoots him a dark look. “Go outside and take a look around,” the officer orders, waving a hand at his minion, “Be thorough.” Grunting a curse under his breath, the soldier lets himself out and vanishes off into the rainy night. When Faulkner looks back to you, you see a lurid air of paranoia burning in his single eye. Mutual distrust, he had called it. It's starting to seem like something rather more serious than that.

“Let's not get carried away here,” you suggest, “You want me to bring Carter that message, don't you? Sooner might be better than later, so why don't I just-”

“The idea that Carter would bring someone new into our operation without telling me in advance... it troubles me,” Faulkner murmurs, tapping one gloved finger against his lips, “He's really not supposed to be making these kinds of decisions, you see. Now, I understand that the situation – as you describe it – was rather urgent, but still.” Sadly shaking his head, Faulkner steps back as the door bangs open. The soldier marches back inside, dripping wet and dragging Freddy along with him.

“Is that your pilot?” Faulkner barks, pointing at Freddy before glancing back to his underling, “Was she alone?”

“Yes sir,” the soldier replies briskly, “I found her napping in the skiff. She's disarmed, no attempts at resistance.”

Did he just say that she was alone?

[1/2]

>>2912296

“I don't know what the big deal is,” Freddy complains, feigning a sleepy drawl to her voice, “I'm just a pilot. Was I not allowed to land my ship here? You should put up a sign or something, come on...”

You think she's supposed to be taking a cue from Dwight and playing at being the clueless pilot, but she sounds more like someone in a drug stupor. Faulkner looks her over again before turning away, dismissing her from thought. Glancing across to you, Freddy gives you the tiniest hint of a shrug – just enough to tell you that she doesn't know where Masque is either. Did he get a hint of trouble and escape early, or has he gone rogue? Neither option seems particularly positive right now.

Turning back to you, Faulkner toys with the flare pistol for a moment before speaking. Looking at him, you could almost bring yourself to believe that he was a calm, rational man. Almost.

“I think it's time that you tell me why you're really here,” the rogue officer murmurs, “I know when something isn't right – I know all too well. Is it Eishin? He's always wanted to write me out of this deal, right from the very start. Are you here to replace me, then? Or is it something else?” Lashing out, he grabs Freddy by the arm and pulls her close, shoving the barrel of the flare pistol under her chin. “Did Carter really send you here?” he hisses, “Tell me!”

Freddy grunts, almost throwing her elbow back into Faulkner's gut before rational sense takes over and she freezes. For a moment, your mind whirls with scattered thoughts – would the pistol actually fire, and if so with what effect? Even if the flare itself didn't ignite, then...

It doesn't bear thinking about. One way or the other, though, you need to get Faulkner to calm down – or, at the very least, to take that gun away from your pilot's head.

>Stick to your story – he's got to be bluffing!
>Admit the truth about Carter – what other choice do you have?
>Tackle him, try and get that gun away from Freddy's head
>Distract Faulkner with some other lie... (Write in)
>Other

>>2911049
>He might have trusted us a little more, enough to show some of his own cards, but it wouldn't have been total trust. Not what you'd call the trusting sort, Faulkner

>>2912298
>Stick to your story – he's got to be bluffing!
Act exasperated, like this is terribly inconvenient for us, while trying to make it look like we don't really care that much about Freddy. Tell him we've got places to be, people to meet and to stop acting like a child.

It might even work.

>>2912298

>Stick to your story – he's got to be bluffing!

"Of course Carter sent me, you twit. How else would I know the code phrase? Like I said before, if Eishin hasn't seen fit to tell you about my role, that's something you should take up with him. And really Freddy? Sleeping on the job? Shameful. No dignity."

>>2912306
He is kinda jumping all over the place with his claims, he's just suspicious.

>>2912298
>Stick to your story – he's got to be bluffing!

Can't be Giving up at the first hint of danger.

>>2912298
>Stick to your story – he's got to be bluffing!
"Carter just couldn't make it Faulker. That's all this is. He gave me this so you'll trust me this far at least."

>Show him the medal
"You gave him this medal during some shooting competition. He said he came second to a Burgess."

"Please let my pilot go."

>>2912306
>>2912308
>>2912309
Remember the medal. We haven't used it yet.

>>2912312
>>2912315
Don't actually show him the medal. It would just look weird. We could have just stolen it, while the password we used had to have been given willingly.

>>2912335
I think in conjunction with the story 'he told us' it should be fine.

>>2912298
>>Stick to your story – he's got to be bluffing!

>>2912306
I think a Free Captain of our reputation making a show of not caring about crew would be more suspicious. Being realistically worried would look for honest in this case imo.

Calm. Keep calm. That's what you're supposed to do when you're faced with a wild animal, isn't it? The slightest hint of weakness, and it'll all be over. So, trying to ignore the fact that Faulkner has the muzzle of a potentially lethal weapon pressed underneath your pilot's jaw, you meet the rogue officer's eye and draw in a deep, smooth breath. “Of course Carter sent me. How else would I have known your pass phrase?” you tell him, your voice slow and level, “He couldn't make it, that's all it is. Surely you know how impulsive the consul can be when he has his eyes set on some treasure?”

One corner of Faulkner's mouth twists as he smirks. “He only cares about padding out his little collection, that one,” he sneers, “No greater cause, no higher purpose.”

A note of hypocrisy here, you suspect. “So I'd like to get back to the capital, get this over with, then do something productive. You're just wasting my time here,” you remark, allowing a hint of irritation to enter your voice, “And you, Freddy – sleeping on the job? You're making me look bad here. We're supposed to be professionals!”

“Sorry sir,” she replies tightly, her eyes wide with barely-contained panic, “It won't happen again.”

“Faulkner. Carter wanted you to see this,” you continue, “I'm going to reach into my pocket now. I'm not reaching for a weapon, but you'll have to trust me on that.” Slowly, you pull out the medal and hold it up so Faulkner can see it. He mouths some vague sound at the sight of it, then lets go of Freddy's arm. Keeping the flare pistol trained on her head, he holds out his hand for the medal. With a hard lump forming in your throat, you toss it across to him.

“I remember giving him this,” Faulkner remarks, “He had a terrible hangover that day. We were both younger men, then.”

“I suppose that's why he came second,” you think aloud, “It was Burgess who took the top prize that day, wasn't it? Carter told me about it. He knew you'd remember.”

These words hang in the air for a moment more before Faulkner lowers the pistol and allows Freddy to hurry away from him. “If he didn't trust you, Carter would never have told you that much,” Faulkner admits, a grudging note in his voice, “He would have tricked you, given you a false name or... Fine. Fine, but I won't forget this. You tell Carter that I want to see him as soon as possible. It seems that we have some additional matters to discuss.”

“Now, I can't promise anything. I don't know his schedule that well, and the consul is a busy man,” you offer with a tiny shrug, “But that's something you can arrange between yourselves. I've held up my end of the deal. If we're done here, then I'd like to leave.”

For a moment, you expect Faulkner to protest, to find some other reason to keep you here. Then, at last, he offers the flare pistol back to you and nods towards the door.

[1/2]

>>2912354
*heavy sweating*

>>2912354

Your hands, buried deep within your pockets, won't stop trembling. Ignoring the rain that taps against your shoulders, you trudge back towards the skiff with Freddy. All the while, you keep expecting a bullet to come chasing after you. Judging by Freddy's expression, you're not the only one who can't relax quite so soon - she looks pale and ill, but not beaten. “Looks like we bought ourselves some time,” she mutters to you, “Good work. This wasn't exactly how I had expected this to go, but...”

“Did you see where Masque went?” you ask her, only for the pilot to shake her head, “What, you weren't actually sleeping, were you?”

“You're kidding, right? There's no way that I could sleep at a time like this,” she replies, forcing a laugh, “No, I was pretending. I thought it might look better, a little less like we were up to no good. I just hope-” Her words are cut sharply off as a dark shape looms out from behind the skiff, and your revolver is halfway out of its holster before you recognise the figure as Masque. “Bastard!” Freddy hisses, “Where did you vanish off to?”

“I hid,” the daemon replies simply, “I thought that it would look... suspicious, if one such as I was found in your company. Irregular. So, I removed myself from sight.”

“I don't think Faulkner would have needed any more excuses to be suspicious,” Freddy mutters to herself, glancing back over her shoulder at the trading post, “Damn it. They've still got my gun.” For a moment, she almost looks like she wants to return and demand her weapon back, but then good sense prevails. “They can keep it,” she decides, “I've got plenty more back on the ship.”

-

Gehrard's team follows you back to the capital, their inelegant skiff trailing behind your swifter vessel. Contacting you over the radio, the officer in charge hammers you with question after question, demanding to the know every last detail about your time with Faulkner. Not just what you discussed either, but a full set of questions about his demeanour and bearing. Answering them as best you can, you feel a new sympathy for Carter himself – it's not much fun being on the receiving end of an Iraklin interrogation. Even landing at the aerodrome doesn't put an end to it. Instead, it just allows the bullish officer to question you face to face.

On the bright side, it does mean that you won't need to report back to Hess immediately. He'll carry your report to the higher ups, and you can...

Well, you can do something else.

>Go with the officer and report directly to Hess. Better safe than sorry
>Visit Carter and see if he has anything to say about the meeting
>Go for a drink. You've had enough of this “work” stuff for the time being
>Other

>>2912402
>Visit Carter and see if he has anything to say about the meeting

>>2912402
>Go for a drink. You've had enough of this “work” stuff for the time being

vices yes

>>2912402
>Go for a drink. You've had enough of this “work” stuff for the time being
Making sure the report gets topside would be the sensible thing to do, but...

>>2912402
>Go for a drink. You've had enough of this “work” stuff for the time being

As you watch the broad-shouldered officer march away, you slump back and let out a long sigh. Masque stares at you, as if puzzled by your fatigue. “What?” you ask him, “Got something to say?”

“I forget, sometimes, at how weak mortal men can be,” the daemon replies, “You rested on the flight over, did you not?”

“A brief nap isn't exactly all that a man needs to make it through the day, especially not with the kind of day I've had,” you explain, “A man needs time to relax and gather his thoughts. Good food, a warm bed, the comfort of knowing that the next day will be safe and certain... that's what really helps. Also drinking – that's a big part of it. Speaking of which...” Leaning forwards, you stick your head into the skiff's cockpit and call out to Freddy. “I'm going for a drink,” you tell her, “Coming?”

“Should we?” she asks, “I mean, the consul...”

“He's got his own people on this,” you remind her, “We've done all we can here. We've earned ourselves a little bit of time off.” Leaving the matter at that, you climb out of the skiff and wander out of the aerodrome. Picking a direction at random, you set off into the city to see what you can stumble across. It isn't long before Freddy catches up with you, shooting you a long-suffering smile. “Changed your mind?” you ask, raising an eyebrow, “Well, I don't mind...”

“I ought to be here, to make sure you don't get into any trouble,” Freddy counters, “That's all it is.”

Laughing to yourself, you turn a corner and amble down the next street you see. “If you say so,” you remark as you walk, “If you see anywhere you like the look of, just shout. I'm not particularly fussy about where I drink, so long as its not a Carth place. Right now, tea just won't cut it.”

-

The streets grow steadily tighter and darker, winding in on themselves like a ball of snakes, and it is at the centre of this knot that you find a good place to stop. You don't see a sign above the door, but the smell of gutter drink hangs heavily in the air here. It's the sort of pit that you'd expect to see in Monotia, not here, but that suits you just fine. You've had enough of schemes and politics – tonight, for whatever is left of it, you're going back to a lower kind of life.

And you plan on enjoying every moment of it.

Bullying your way to an empty table with an arrogant swagger, you call out for a round of drinks and wait for the hassled, overworked girl to bring them over. “You know anything about flare pistols?” you ask Freddy as you wait, “Just, if Faulkner had fired that thing...”

“It wouldn't have been pretty,” the pilot tells you, wincing a little as she considers it, “Not pretty at all.”

[1/2]

>>2912552

The drinks arrive, two mismatched flagons of murky ale, and Freddy grimaces as she takes a sip. “The flare wouldn't have ignited straight away, at least. They have a fuse, about five to ten seconds as I recall. Even so, it would fire with enough force to break bone,” she continues, “At the very least, it could have shattered my jaw. Worst case scenario, it could have broken my neck, and... what?”

You hadn't realised that you were staring at her. “Nothing,” you reply, hiding your surprise with a drink of ale, “Just wasn't expecting you to answer in such... detail. That's all.”

“Was it that strange?” Freddy asks, only to shrug a moment later, “I suppose it doesn't matter. I hear that we might be working with some churchmen soon. Grace mentioned them – you met them, didn't you? What do you think about them?”

“Probably best if you give the woman a wide berth. She seems to have a problem with Iraklins,” you suggest carefully, “The other two, Khusraw and Sabin, seem to be decent enough. Even Al-Farabi – that's the woman I mentioned - is a professional. When it matters, I think she'll be able to put aside any grudges she might have. Whatever else they are, they're soldiers. Can you think of any reason why she might hate Iraklins? Aside from, you know, the obvious?”

Freddy starts to shake her head before an idea comes to her and she snaps her fingers. “There's one thing I can recall,” she tells you, “It was an incident shortly after the Annexation War. A Carth militia airship flew a little too close to Pastonne airspace, and an Iraklin cruiser fired on it. It was never serious enough to be called a fight, but I'm pretty sure some Carths died. The whole thing got hushed up – the Carths were worried that any conflict might escalate into a full scale war.”

“I never heard about that,” you mutter to yourself. Really, that shouldn't come as a surprise – the immediate aftermath of the Annexation War saw you in a drunken stupor for most of it. The Mountain of Faith could have fallen out of the sky and you wouldn't have noticed it unless it actually landed on your head. “Well, either way,” you decide, “Best not to bring it up when we next meet. Even I have more tact than that.”

Maybe.

“Well, it's not an episode that anyone is particularly proud of,” Freddy concludes, “Not us, not the Carths, not anyone.” Finishing her drink in three powerful swigs, she pushes away the empty flagon. “That's enough for me, I think,” she decides, “I'm going to head back to the ship... if I can remember the way, that is.”

“Oh that's easy,” you laugh, “You just go... uh...”

“Oh dear,” the pilot sighs to herself.

[2/3]

>Sorry for the delay. Currently dying of headaches

>>2912663
rip
take a shower, they help with headaches for some arcane reason

>>2912663
Rember to deink alot of water, you can get headaces feom not drinking wnguh water

>Yeah, I'm sorry about this, but I think I'm just going to close things here. I'm clearly not going to get much writing done, and I have some other errands to run. I'll continue this next Friday, and I should have a bonus interlude ready for midweek sometime.
>Again, I apologise for being such a flake lately. Your continued patience is appreciated.

>>2912947
It's all good. Thanks for running and take care of yourself.

>>2912947
:(

Thanks for running! Hope you feel better.

How much experience does Freddy have finishing nasty alcoholic beverages in record time?

>>2912977
She Not!German so probably a lot.

File: Elias Caldwell.jpg (114 KB, 800x1098)

114 KB JPG

Caldwell woke slowly, and it was a long while before he could be sure whether he was awake or dreaming. A light rain had fallen while he was asleep, and his body was loathsome with mud. Despite this he felt warm, some kindly soul having set up two flaming torches by his cage. In the flickering light that they cast, he could see Segharl sitting on the opposite side of his cage's bars. A heavy leather sack sat by the giant's side, and he had the usual two cups ready.

“You fought well yesterday,” Segharl began, noticing that Caldwell was awake.

“It's a new day, then,” Caldwell murmured, not yet grasping the significance of those words. Reaching out, he took the cup of liquor that Segharl offered. “I fought well,” he thought aloud, “But not well enough to earn my freedom, apparently.”

“That you were allowed to leave without spilling blood was already a breach of our traditions. You should be thankful that my liege was amused by your spirit,” the giant warned, “I, too, was impressed. You may not have earned your freedom, but you have won my respect. Drink, assassin, and we can talk awhile.”

“It seems that we do little BUT talk,” Caldwell shot back, taking his bowl and drinking from it. The liquor burned his throat, but the heat failed to completely hide a bitter taste. Poison? If so, then so be it – he would be poisoned, and that would be the end of it. “Those women I saw, with your liege,” the assassin continued, pushing all thoughts of poison from his mind, “Who were they?”

“The Mavens, King Eishin's witches,” the giant answered, “They are as you see them now because of their misdeeds. They sought to manipulate my liege, and so he had them punished. Then they sought to escape, and so he had them punished again. They are wretches, knowing that King Eishin cannot kill them and yet fearing what he will do to them if they disobey. Put them out of your mind, assassin, they are not worth your pity.”

“I do not pity them,” Caldwell countered, “We're just talking, aren't we? Then talk - are they kept hidden away from sight? In all my time here, I never saw them until yesterday.”

Segharl chuckled, his laugh like ancient stones grinding together. “How cunningly you probe for any hint of a weakness!” he rumbled, “Yes, assassin, they are hidden. A cavern in the east is their home now – a rank pit where they dwell amidst the foulness.” Pausing here, Segharl refilled his cup and took a contemplative sip. “I see no reason to hide this from you,” he added, “Nothing that I can tell you will make any difference now.”

Caldwell opened his mouth to speak, only for nothing to come out save for a hoarse croak. His heart began to hammer in his chest, a sheen of sweat forming on his brow. As the bowl fell from his numb fingers, the assassin slumped back. So this was it, he found himself thinking, they had finally grown tired of him.

So be it.

[1/3]

>>2920776

“Poison, yes, but not a poison meant to end your life,” Segharl explained, his pitiless eyes gazing down on Caldwell as if from a great height, “There are many ways to break a man. My liege knows this, and he wished this for you. This trial will test you – either you will break, or you will truly become one of us. When morning comes, we shall know for certain.” As he said this, Segharl shifted and placed one hand on the leather sack by his side. Behind the sitting giant, Caldwell could dimly see figures moving some obscure object into position. A sharpened wooden stake, the assassin realised, one end buried deep in the soil.

“Take comfort in this,” Segharl concluded, his grating voice echoing in Caldwell's ringing ears, “What you are about to experience, I too have endured. You are strong – I think that you will survive this.” Standing, he opened the sack and pulled something out as he turned his back on Caldwell. With a wet thud, the giant stabbed the object down upon the wooden stake and nodded to himself. “Assassin,” he concluded, glancing back over his shoulder, “Do not disappoint me.”

Then he left, slipping away into the night and allowing Caldwell to see, at last, what had been in that bag.

Hackett's bloody, severed head.

-

Those hours, those countless hours until daybreak, were an ordeal that no amount of Caldwell's training could have prepared him for. He lay in the dirt, sometimes shuddering and sometimes writhing in pain, as mocking voices rained down upon him. Some he recognised, but others were unknown to him. Sometimes they spoke in languages that he languages that he could not understand, sibilant tongues that hissed poison directly into his mind. Yet, although those inhuman mutterings were terrible to hear, worse still were the words he could understand.

“So you finally did it. You finally got me killed,” Hackett's phantom voice jeered, “Did you really think that Eishin's mercy would last more than a single day? You must be the world's biggest fool, assassin. Little wonder that your masters have abandoned you here – you failed them, you failed all of us, and you've failed yourself.” Scornful laughter rang out, the echoing sound twisting about Caldwell as it morphed into something less than human. “Your old masters have abandoned you, assassin, you are lost and adrift in a hateful land” it growled, “But it need not be so.”

A new voice, then. “This is where you need to be,” it murmured, soothing to Caldwell's abused ears. Raising his head, he saw a luminous figure leaning over him. Stiff and proper in his formal uniform, but pallid with decay, it wore his own image. “You know why. Two children born in accordance with prophecy – born to different mothers, but the same profligate father,” the phantom continued, “There is a truth here. You need only open your eyes to see it.”

But here, Caldwell closed his eyes. He refused to see.

[2/3]

>>2920779

Morning found Caldwell as cold and hard as a bared blade. His fever had broken with the first rays of the sun, and now he had emerged – as Segharl had said he would – as a changed man. Changed... in some undefinable way. He felt as though he had reached some decision, although he could not say what that was, and in that, he found strength. When Segharl found the assassin, he seemed to understand straight away.

“Take him to the water,” the giant ordered, gesturing to one of his men, “He will be allowed to bathe. That much, at least, he has earned.”

-

Cool and soothing, the gently flowing water turned black as it washed across Caldwell's lower body and carried away the grime that had gathered there. For the first time in what seemed like a very long while, the assassin finally felt clean. The water bubbled out of the cracks in the rock, flowing away to parts unknown. Ever since his escort had turned to leave him, Caldwell had been considering the idea of simply following the water's flow and seeing how far he could get. A tempting idea, but...

Behind him, the undergrowth rustled. Turning, he saw a white figure standing at the tree line – not an illusion or a phantom, but the witch Gorgon. Without raising a word of greeting, and without pausing to strip off the fluttering white tunic she wore, she waded out into the water to join Caldwell. For the longest time, words failed him. Then...

“Caldwell,” she whispered, “The ritual... I was mistaken. It was not my death they wanted, but my life. I was... wrong.”

“Hackett is dead,” Caldwell rasped, finally finding his voice, “I've made up my mind - I'm going to kill Eishin. Will you help me?”

“Will you stay here with me?” Gorgon replied, wading closer to Caldwell until their bodies were almost pressed against one another. Closing his eyes for a moment, the assassin felt something within him shift and rouse. Then, he nodded. Reaching out with his single arm, he pulled Gorgon to him.

Her body held the scent of life – of damp soil and the promise of vitality. The promise of things yet to come.

>This concludes today's bonus interlude. Into the Skies will continue on Friday with our usual sort of thing
>Thank you for reading along!

>>2920779
>Two children born in accordance with prophecy – born to different mothers, but the same profligate father
BROTHER! That or Kezaiah and Gorgon are half sisters.

>>2921070
Or it's Caldwell and Gorgon.

>>2920782
So, Caldwell is Solid Snake and Milos is Liquid?

Maaaaybe it's Caldwell and Eishin

Or Caldwell and Segharl

>>2921078
>>2921358
>>2921514
Caldwell is everyone's brother

File: Embodiment of Disease.jpg (124 KB, 727x900)

124 KB JPG

You're alone now, alone and drunk. Alone and drunk in a squalid pit straight out of the worst parts of Monotia. Murky ale gave way to cheap brandy, which gave way to less palatable spirits – something that came in a clay jug and smelled strong enough to strip paint. It's just what you need right now, something to wipe out any trace of reality. Between sips of your drink you recall Monotia, and with it Mara. She had her own little code phrases, back in Brightpool. They had seemed absurd, comedic, at the time. Now, though? You can't really it in yourself to laugh.

“Here's to you, Greta, whoever you are,” you mutter, raising your glass in a bitter salute, “May you continue to grow fat and happy, wherever you are.”

You're not even sure why this has all hit you so hard – maybe, you consider, it's the idea of how bad it could have been if things had worked out differently. If Carter had managed to blow his brains out, if you hadn't been able to pry the code phrases out of him, if Grace had never been able to find that Imago...

All things considered, you really shouldn't be complaining about how things ended up. Everyone got out alive, and the plans against Eishin can continue. Still, there's an uneasiness sitting in the pit of your stomach that no amount of liquor can drown out – but that's not going to stop you trying. When your cup is finally empty, you slump down across the table and close your eyes... just for a moment.

When you look back up the walls of the squalid bar have retreated, replaced by shadowed roles of trees. Murky water sluggishly flows about your feet, and a swollen moon hangs heavily in the sky above you. Slowly looking around, you rise from the table – absurdly out of place in these new surroundings – and take a few steps closer. When you look back again, the table and chair have vanished again.

“Of course,” you mutter to yourself. This is, by all appearances, the Nightlands, but how did you come to be here? You've not come into contact with any of the key fragments, and you've not taken part in any rites lately. How else, then, could your consciousness have retreated to this uncanny place? Only one possibility remains, but it's not one that you really want to consider. The only other time that you've ended up here, you almost...

Water splashes from further upstream, and you turn to investigate the source of that sound. Hovering a few inches above the surface of the unclean water, you see it again – the horned, masked, subhuman form of your death. It hangs suspended in the air for a moment more, and then it coyly beckons for you to approach it.

[1/2]

>>2925894

“So is this it?” you call out, spreading your hands wide as you wade through the brackish stream, “Drinking myself to death in some shitty, no-name-”

“Still thy tongue,” the spirit chides, “This is kin to a dream, and precious little more than that... for now. We can go a little deeper, if you wish.” Chuckling, the spirit gracefully rolled through the air as a fish might glide through water – or, more disarmingly, as a wyrm would fly through the clouds. “I had thought to assume a familiar face, to put you at ease,” it taunted, “Was I wrong, son of man?”

Setting aside the whole idea of being at ease, you look the spirit in the eye and approach it. “Why am I here?” you ask bluntly, “HOW am I here?”

“How? Because the Nightlands are within you. Blood has a memory of its own, a memory that stretches back to the earliest men, and you are – I think – starting to remember,” the spirit purrs, “Why? Because, I think, you have not yet remembered enough. I wish to open your eyes, to show you things that no living eyes have seen for a great many generations. Won't you allow me?”

Here, you say nothing. In the far off distance, you hear the faint echo of drums stirring the night. A feverish warmth begins to seep though your body, and you reach up to touch your sweating brow. When your fingers brush against two spurs of gnarled bone, the rough material jutting pugnaciously up towards the sky, you hastily pull your hand away.

“It is time that you learn the nature of a monarch, the way of kingship,” the daemon offers, holding out a scaled, clawed hand, “Won't you take my hand, son of man? It is not enough to tell you – you must SEE.”

>Take the daemon's hand
>Reject the daemon's hand
>Other

>>2925897
>Take the daemon's hand
"Not really interested in being a monarch, but show me what you got."

>>2925897
>Take the daemon's hand

Dang, just a daemon? I thought this was old man Impurity himself

>>2925897
>Reject the daemon's hand

>>2925897
>>Take the daemon's hand
we're gonna find out, but I doubt we'll actually do those things

>>2925897
>Take the daemon's hand

“I don't have much interest in becoming a monarch, you know. Too much like hard work,” you tell the spirit, hesitating for a moment before slowly reaching your hand towards it, “But you've got me curious now. You-”

Your words are cut off as the daemon's hand snaps closed around your wrist. Around you, the murky swamp begins to blur and fall upwards into the sky like scraps of burning paper caught in an updraft. Although you never move, your stomach lurches as if you were the one falling and your mind whirls with disordered thoughts. No matter how much you might want to, you don't think you could break out of the daemon's grip. Not now – what it has set in motion cannot be stopped now.

“Kingship,” the daemon gurgles, rolling the word around in its mouth as the world around you continues to blur, “More than a simple word. More than a simple act of ruling. To be a true monarch is to straddle the world, to pull the stars from the sky and command the winds. Hard work indeed, son of man!” Laughing throatily, the daemon suddenly lunges forwards and pushes you backwards. Taken by surprise, there is nothing you can do but tumbles backwards as the ground vanishes beneath you. You fall for a moment more, and then-

And then you land hard, a cloud of dust kicked up by your abrupt landing. Blinking away your confusion, you look up into the sky and see... nothing. The pale grey of evening, speckled with the first and brightest stars, but no islands hanging in the sky. Then, the daemon's hand appears, held out to you. Painfully aware of what happened the last time you trusted it, you grudgingly accept the hand and allow the spirit to haul you to your feet.

“A true monarch requires two things, two pieces of proof – their crown, and their tower,” it explains once you're upright again, holding both hands out with their palms raised, “But you mustn't allow yourself the mistake of thinking literally. Sometimes a crown is not a crown – sometimes it is a sword, a banner... a ship. A symbol of the monarch's strength and will, whatever form it may take..”

“Sometimes a crown isn't a crown. I get it,” you grunt, rubbing gritty dust out of you hair, “What about the tower?”

“An obstacle to be overthrown, a challenge to be defeated. A tower, yes, or a pit. Sometimes a battlefield...” the spirit continues, taking you by the arm and steering you around until you face south. There, a great mountain rises up from the middle of the land, so vast that its peak is shrouded in feathery white clouds.

“And sometimes,” the spirit murmurs, “The tower takes the form of a mountain.”

[1/2]

>>2925972

A screech from high above you tears your gaze away from the looming mountain, and you hastily glance upwards to see a winged shape gliding past. Not a bird, but something closer in form to a man. Without making any show of noticing you, the flying creature continues on its way until the clouds close up around it. “What the hell was that?” you ask your guide, once you have the luxury of speech, “Where are we?”

“We now stand in the domain of a king. One such monarch – the first of many. Many will rise and fall upon this land, their names forgotten save for one... Grundvald,” it replies, “A name you know, am I not correct?”

“King Grundvald of the Tower,” you recall, “We took his crown from here, along with one of the key fragments. Then we're...” Breathing out in slow amazement, you think back to what you had found here, back in reality. A dry dust bowl, littered with stone ruins and a hidden library locked away beneath the land. Heedless of the daemon, you hasten off ahead and tackle the hill before you. Rising to the top, you look out to see a city of pallid stone stretching out before you. Slender towers dot the city, each one circled by a number of those bird-things. “Daemons?” you ask at last, looking back and finding your guide hovering a pace behind you.

“They roam here, wild and free, feeding as they wish,” it replies with a sickly note of glee in its voice, “There are always new bodies, here.”

Feeling nausea bubbling up within your gut, you slide down the hill and approach the city.

-

“Go on, tell me more,” you ask the daemon as it dances a loose circle around you, “What makes a crown? Does it have to be old, or powerful, or...”

“The crown is the symbol of the man. A warrior bears his sword, a bard carries their flute, and a captain sails the seas upon a great vessel,” it chuckles, “Ah, but where is there to sail to? No, there is nothing interesting about the oceans – not yet, at least. Better to sail elsewhere... isn't that right, captain?”

Grunting, you look around as the coarse sound of voices reaches you. In the distance, but getting closer, you see a train of people bound by thick ropes. Two men guide the prisoners towards the city, one of them striking out with a lash and the other brandishing a cruel scimitar. “Slaves?” you guess, watching the procession as it draws closer.

“Taken in a war with some mainland tribe,” the daemon confirms with an indifferent wave of its hand, “Does it make your heart ache, seeing such wretches? Why not strike now and set them free? This is your land, to play with as you see fit. If it pleases you to destroy these people, then destroy them!”

Looking down, you see Feanor's blade sheathed at your hip – the complete blade, intact as it once must have been.

>Stay away from the slavers as you make your way to the city
>Intercept the slavers and attack
>Approach the slavers and speak with them
>Other

>>2926060
>Intercept the slavers and attack
Alright sure.

>>2926060
>Intercept the slavers and attack!

Hope demon boi is legit and they aren't going to wreck us.

>>2926060
>Approach the slavers and speak with them
order them to release the slaves. if we truly are king then our word should be enough. a king commands, he doesn't fight

>>2926060
>Intercept the slavers and attack
we miiiiiight end up killing the slaves though

>>2926060
I'll change my vote >>2926065 to this >>2926079

cause he raises a good point. If they disobey then attack/order guards to seize them, etc.

>>2926060
>Approach the slavers and speak with them

>>2926060
>Intercept the slavers and attack

>>2926060
Let's go with >>2926079

You're not sure about how this is supposed to work – how much you can change or influence this place – but you're not willing to stand idly by while a train of slaves are driven towards their fate. Grimacing, you rest one hand upon the hilt of your sword and march towards the group. They slow as you approach, and the swordsman raises his blade in a crude salute – a threat as much a a greeting. Both warriors wear shaggy furs and bone trinkets, roughly sewn leathers visible beneath their outer layers. Both of them have painted faces, black pigment smeared into the shape of jaws. The slaves, a dozen in all, wear naught but rags and scars.

“Hail!” you call out, hearing unfamiliar words leaving your mouth, “These are your slaves?”

“Aye, taken by right of conquest. Easy pickings, these coastal town. Would that we had a bigger ship – we could have taken a dozen more!” the swordsman barks, waving his blade at the cowering slaves, “Sickness took their warriors, or so they claim. Hah! A curse from the gods, more like, a curse for their craven nature!”

“Now we go to deliver them to the king,” the second man adds in a sullen tone, “He pays good coin for flesh.”

“No,” you insist, pulling an inch of your blade from its scabbard, “You're going to release them.”

Both warriors pause, staring at you in mute confusion. Cackling to itself, your daemon guide circles the whole scene. They can't see it, you realise, although perhaps they can sense it on some level – when it passes close by one of the slaves, she shudders a little. “You give orders as if you were born to it,” the swordsman growls, “But we take orders from no man. Who are you?”

“A king in my own right,” you tell them, “Now, by my authority, I shall grant you one last chance – release them, or suffer the consequences.”

The swordsman laughs, joined a moment later by his companion. You all laugh together for a moment, and then the swordsman hurls himself at you with a sudden yell of anger. His scimitar raised to split your skull open, he lunges forwards. Feanor's blade smoothly slides from its scabbard as you draw it and step around the clumsy blow, lashing the blade across your enemies chest and splitting him open. Before his body can hit the ground, the second warrior is moving towards you, his whip discarded in favour of a hardy hatchet. Spinning around, you strike out and find him with the edge of you blade, dropping him down into the dust without so much as a murmur.

Both men are dead in seconds, before your thoughts even have a chance to catch up. So, you realise, you have that much influence here, at least.

“I wondered, I did wonder,” the daemon chuckles, “But you did indeed destroy them. Did it please you to do so, son of man?”

[1/2]

>>2926157
Oh we weren't actually the king. That was awkward.

>>2926260
Yeah it's Grundvald's old city

>>2926157

Ignoring that mocking question, you point the bloodied tip of your blade at the daemon. “Was that a trick?” you demand, “Hint that I'm a... that I'm a true monarch, whatever that means, and hope I get myself in trouble?”

“No trick!” the daemon insists, “But perhaps you expect too much, son of man. These men, who bound their kin in ropes and chains, they understood better than you do – they understand that power must be seized with bloody hands. Break your fellow men and trample them beneath your feet, that is the path to kingship!” It laughs gleefully, placing its hands upon one of the slaves and causing them to let out a thin cry. “No monarch has ever assumed their throne without dirtying their hands,” it concludes, “Not one.”

“Hell...,” you mutter, shaking blood off of your sword and turning away from the cowering slaves. Already, they have started to fumble their bonds loose, moving with the dazed motions of men no longer certain about their place in the world. “I don't like this,” you spit at the spirit, “I don't like this at all.”

“Ah, but we have just begun,” the daemon coos, “Come, son of man, and we shall see a REAL king.”

-

It takes you a moment to realise that the ragged train have cast off the last of their bonds and taken to following you. Seeking any direction at all, they trail behind you and murmur amongst themselves. After a while more, one of the former slaves shakes off his confusion and hurries ahead to stand beside you. “You!” he pleads, “What do you mean to do with us?”

“Me? I don't know. I freed you – I thought you would leave this place,” you reply, “What reason do you have for staying?”

“The others, I cannot say. Home is very far away now,” the young man answers, “But I must go to the city. My sister was taken in the last raid, perhaps it was men from this city who took her. I cannot leave without searching for her. You – why do YOU come to this city?”

“He seeks the king,” your guide purrs, touching one talon to the side of the young man's head before you can speak, “To learn the ways of a true monarch.”

“You seek the king?” the former slave blurts out, causing a few of his companions to groan with dismay, “But he is a monster! I have heard stories, tales that he eats the flesh of men and gnaws upon the bones of children. No, stranger, you must not!” Grabbing your sleeve, the young slave tugs at you. “I am Atal, stranger. Come with me, help me look for my sister!” he pleads, “We can do much good here!”

Circling you, the daemon studies you with mocking eyes as it awaits your response.

>You must visit the king. That's why you're here, after all
>You'll help Atal look for his sister. It's the right thing to do
>You'll wander the city on your own terms. You're making the decisions here
>Other

>>2926294
>>You'll help Atal look for his sister. It's the right thing to do

>>2926294
>Help Atal look for his sister.

We did say we weren't interested in kinghood.

>>2926294
>You'll help Atal look for his sister. It's the right thing to do

>>2926330
I get the feeling this is going to be a 'Road to hell is paved with good intentions' kinda thing where we inadvertently start leading these slaves.

>>2926342
Fukin destiny

>>2926294

>You'll wander the city on your own terms. You're making the decisions here

We can do this while helping Astal look for his sister. Maybe she doesn't even want to leave anymore.

We'll judge the King by his works.

“I'll help you look for her,” you tell Atal, “Do you have any idea of where to start?”

Blank confusion forms on the young man's face for a moment. It's not a good look for him, causing his jaw to hang slack as his eyes lose focus. As if aware of your thoughts, he snaps his mouth shut and shakes his head. “My sister, Arah, should not be hard to find. She was touched by the gods, born under a red moon. Her back, it has...” his words trail off here, and mimes a bird with his hands.

“Wings?” you blurt out, “She has wings?”

“Small, small! Only the span of two hands in size, and withered,” he explains, cringing against your harsh tone, “But yes, wings. That, I fear, is why they took her. Why they knew about us at all. When she was born, word spread to the surrounding tribes that...” Shaking his head, Atal hurries on ahead and leaves you to ponder on his words.

“I've never seen anyone born with wing before,” you murmur to your capricious guide, “Were things... different before?”

“The world you see now is yet young, still wild and untamed. Yes, men here are both greater and more monstrous. The world you know has been shackled, forced into an unnatural order,” it explains, “Beautiful, no?”

Grunting dismissively, you hasten on ahead to catch up with Atal.

-

When you reach the edge of the city, the remaining slaves break up and slip away into the crowds. Confused, you watch them leave. “Where are they going?” you ask Atal, “Why...”

“I have heard that new faces arrive in this city every day, drawn by what it offers even though they cannot name what that is. Here, they can hide their faces and take new names. This city can become a new home,” he offers with a weak shrug, “The gods send us adversity, and we grow stronger as we overcome it. That is what we are taught – to remain static is death. I have an idea, stranger. Slaves are sold here, I believe. If we are to seek information...”

“Ask the slave traders about a winged girl,” you agree, “It's a good place to start, at least. Do you know where the slave traders are?”

Again, that blank look of confusion. Sighing, you gesture for the young man to follow you.

-

“A true monarch will always draw men to their side,” the daemon whispers to you as you walk, “Even if they know not why. A terrible allure, no? If a man cannot understand why he is drawn to a thing, it becomes that much harder to resist. Ah, but it is not just MEN that are drawn to their king – the world contorts around them, bending and twisting to better suit their monarch. Cause and effect become distorted, and prophesies are flung forward into the future. You have seen this, have you not?”

Far too much, perhaps.

[1/2]

>>2926421

“We're getting nowhere fast,” you sigh, looking around at the unfamiliar scene around you, “Let's split up. We can cover more ground that way, and... I want some time on my own. I want to see this city for myself.” Pointing to a high tower, the grey stone tip crowned by a bronze vane, you gesture for Atal to memorise it. “I want us to meet back here in... a few hours or so,” you tell him, “Do you understand?”

“Hours?” he repeats, a decided lack of understanding showing on his face.

“At dusk, then,” you offer, swallowing back the urge to groan, “When the sun starts to fade. Better?”

“Better!” Atal agrees, turning and marching away. He seems confident enough, and you can't really blame him. After all, this is a more innocent time – he doesn't need to worry about Iraklin spies or peeking oracles. Nobody here knows his face or his name, save for perhaps his sister... if she yet lives. Privately, you have your doubts about that. A charnel stench hangs over the entire city, the decaying bodies atop the feeding towers spreading their miasma far and wide.

Can you catch a disease in this place?

-

While Atal searches for a lead on his sister, you wander with rather less deliberate motives. Some part of you savours the idea of roaming the streets of this place, this city that no living eye has seen, while another side of you just wants to uncover whatever secrets wait here. Secrets have a power of their own, and...

“Spirit,” you mutter, “When exactly is this?”

“The past,” the daemon guide answers slyly, “One year past or one thousand – it matters not.”

Of course it would say that. “Feanor, the man who first wielded this blade,” you try instead, putting your hand on the sword's hilt, “Has he been born yet?”

“No. Not for several generations yet,” the guide explains, “This is the first iteration of the world. The one who I shall not name has yet to reach down and steal away man's birthright, yet to reshape the land in an image that better pleases him. This is truly the beginning – a time stolen away from your history, plucked like a coin stolen from a purse. You understand me, do you not?”

“It's all perfectly clear...” you sneer, dismissing the daemon and continuing on your way.

[2/3]

>>2926519
>The one who I shall not name has yet to reach down and steal away man's birthright, yet to reshape the land in an image that better pleases him.
Dogma?

>>2926519

Your wanderings take you to a thing that you had never imagined to see – formal temples, raised in honour of the old gods. Not so old now, you suppose, you've come at just the right moment to see them in their prime. You've seen plenty of other strange things too – men with unspeakable shapes, daemons mingling with the common folk, witches peddling their services from makeshift altars...

Despite your modern clothing, no-one looks twice at you. You can only wonder about what they see when they glance your way – a nomadic warrior roaming the city streets, perhaps, looking for a chance to make their fortune. Whatever it is, it suits you fine. You prefer being able to blend in here, only attracting attention when you wish for it.

“Excuse me!” you call out, approaching a hooded witch, “I have questions.”

A looming monster emerges from the shadows as you draw closer, a bestial figure with the head of a horse and a weighty stone axe resting over one shoulder. The... thing grimaces at you as the witch casts back her hood to reveal a head disfigured by a profusion of eyes. Some of them blink at you, but others stare endlessly on. “Always a pleasure to speak with a man from abroad,” she hisses, slits opening and closing at the sides of her mouth with every word she says, “Ask your questions, then.”

“I'm... looking for a girl. A winged girl,” you ask, swallowing back a wave of revulsion, “I believe she was brought to the city recently, brought by force. Do you know anything of this?”

“I have heard that Sarnath, the man who calls himself the silver alchemist, has acquired a new songbird of late,” the witch offers, “If he is the one who caged this winged creature, then I must offer her my sympathies. Many times, I have seen Sarnath offering bodies up to the king for feeding. You wish to find this man? Hmm...” Blinking and winking, the witch studies you for a moment more. “This information, I will give to you,” she decides, “His tower rests beyond a temple in which an eternal flame burns. A little place, not far from here. Perhaps you can see it now?”

Following the witch's pointed finger, you spy a dilapidated tower just barely peeking over the domed buildings surrounding it. A blood-red flag flaps at the top, granting you an easy means of finding it again.”

“I appreciate your help,” you tell the witch, reaching out to offer her your hand. When the deformed giant snorts angrily, though, you quickly pull back and away. Stepping hurriedly back, you glance up at the sky. Still a while before dusk, it seems...

>Head back and wait to meet Atal
>Visit some of the temples around here
>Attempt further conversation with the witch... (Write in)
>Other

>>2926578
>>Visit some of the temples around here
Learn what we can while we are here.

>>2926578
>Visit some of the temples around here

>>2926578
>Attempt further conversation with the witch...

"Nice bodyguard. How'd you make it? Asking for a friend, another less knowledgeable witch."

“Nice friend you've got there,” you tell the witch, nodding up to the hulking guard, “A bodyguard, I take it? Mind if I ask how you made it? You see, I know a witch who's always looking to learn a few new tricks.”

The witch hums as she thinks, then beckons for you to come closer. Glancing briefly at the bodyguard, you lean down and offer her your ear. “Man is made of clay, and the right sculptor can shape it as such” she whispers coyly, her breath caressing your ear, “Huruk, my “nice friend”, once displeased me with an especially clumsy attempt at flirtation. I decided to reward him with a more suitable form – that of a graceless beast. One day, when I have forgiven him, I will reverse the curse. I... think... I remember his face.” Murmuring a rough purr of laughter, she pushes your head away. “Ask your young friend to visit this city for themselves,” she concludes, “There is much to learn here, after all. Now then, be off with you!”

Feeling as the entire encounter left you in urgent need of a bath, you pull back and give the witch a hasty nod of thanks before hurrying away.

-

Recalling the witch's words, and suppressing a shudder at some of them, you soon find the temple she mentioned. A small stone building, domed like most of the structures here, it's clear that the temple has been almost forgotten. Dust and cobwebs cover much of the interior, and nobody else is present. Even so, a proud flame dances in the centre of the circular building with no hint of any fuel or even heat. The Maiden of the Flames was a god of the dead, you recall, but here the dead are left out for inhuman scavengers to feast upon. Little wonder, then, that the Flames are seldom worshipped in this city.

Beneath the cobwebs, the walls of this place are decorated with a fine mosaic – tiny tiles of red, orange and yellow clay forming a rolling sea of fire. Then, rising up out of the flames, you see the image of a woman holding a number of coins in her palms. Running your fingers over the mosaic, you realise that they're real coins – solid gold by the feel of them – that have been set into the wall.

“Must be something special for nobody to have stolen these,” you mutter, looking back to the eternal flame. It feels like you should say a prayer or something, but... you don't know any. Instead, you simply bow your head for a few moments before showing yourself out. Glancing back one last time, you see the coins glinting in the firelight.

Time to head back and share the news with Atal.

[1/2]

>>2926688

You pass a few more temples on your way back, stopping to take a brief look in each one, but none of what you see makes much sense to you. One of them has a high ceiling strung with countless wooden charms that rattle in a constant wind unlike any you felt outside the temple. Another has an endless stream of water falling from an urn held aloft by a grimacing daemon, the water splashing into a low bowl before overflowing and crawling away into drains mounted at each corner of the room. One building you enter opens up into a yawning pit and nothing else.

This is a place where dream and reality blur, blending together into purest delirium. When you return to the relative normality of the city outskirts, you feel both disappointed and relieved. Atal hasn't arrived yet, leaving you with naught to do but wait.

“So now you have seen this city,” your guide purrs, “What do you think?”

“I don't know what to think,” you admit, “Has anyone else seen this place? I mean, any living person. What would it take to allow them to look back like this?”

“No common daemon could do it. I am... somewhat less than common,” the spirit jeers, pacing about you, “This is a memory that sleeps within the blood. Within what grows and decays within the blood. I have a certain... affinity for that corruption. A certain mastery over it, you might say. Only I can spirit a man back here, son of man, and you alone are who I have chosen for this privilege. After all, we're old friends, you and I.”

“Old friends...” you repeat, an idea slowly taking form in your thoughts, “Are you-”

“My friend, you must be careful!” Atal hisses, his voice jolting you back to reality, “Men who speak to the empty air are said to be touched by the gods. Both a blessing and a curse, that.” As he shakes his head in dismay, you notice that Atal looks rather worse for wear – his dark hair is crusted with blood, and his face still has dirt ground into it. “Ah, this?” he explains, noticing your look, “No matter, my friend. It seems I was mistaken for a slave, and ordered to bring wine to a wealthy traveller. When I hesitated, he cuffed me about the head and sent me fleeing. This city is not... kind to one such as I. But enough of that – were you able to learn anything?”

As you explain about Sarnath, Atal's eyes grow wider. “Yes!” he insists, “This is it, my friend, it must be! And you know how to find this man? Then, I must go there now. Thank you, a thousand thanks! I... only wish I had some means of repaying you for this. My own questions were met only with silence or derision, you see, so... I cannot compel you to join me. If you yet wish to meet with the king of this place, I will plead with the gods for your success. That, I fear, is the limit of my power.”

>Accompany Atal on his search
>Leave Atal and seek out the king
>Pursue some other goal here... (Write in)
>Other

>>2926782
>Meet with the king

Fine, I guess we'll go dethrone this jerk. See if we can't bring back any useful lost knowledge for Keziah.

>>2926782
>>Accompany Atal on his search

>>2926782
>Accompany Atal on his search

>>2926782
>Accompany Atal on his search
Kind of want to meet the king but, I don't want to leave this half finished. Dude will probably just get himself killed.

“I'm not quitting now,” you tell Atal, “I don't like leaving things half-finished. Besides, I don't think the king is going anywhere.”

Surprised, but pleased, Atal nods and nervously trots on ahead. You follow after him, wishing that you had thought to bring the dead swordsman's scimitar with you. At the time, you certainly hadn't been expecting to need it. You... hadn't really been sure of what to expect. This all started with an offer of knowledge, of learning how to become a “true monarch”, but now? That knowledge seems to be growing further and further away.

Which, you admit, might not be a bad thing – it seems like a terrible thing, to be a king, or perhaps it is only terrible people that seek it out. “Eishin has a crown,” you whisper, “An actual crown, I mean. Is he trying to make himself into a king?”

Your daemon guide is uncharacteristically silent to this, and you start to wonder if it even knows who Eishin is. Before you can clarify your question, the spirit speaks. “Eishin is a pretender,” it murmurs, “He copies without understanding. He was told to seek a crown, and that is what he claimed – a hollow thing, devoid of significance. He dwells within a tower as if that means anything. He plays the role of king, but he will never be one. A poor, deluded fool is he, and naught else.”

“Well now...” you muse. Maybe you have learned something useful here after all.

-

As if seeking to live up to his name, Sarnath – the silver alchemist – has adorned his tower with gleaming metal. As best you can tell, the doors themselves are made wholly from silver – rather more ornamental than practical, you suspect. Pushing the doors inward, you find them unlocked and unnaturally smooth on their hinges. “Foul sorcery is afoot,” Atal whispers to you, nervously raising his fists.

“Just keep behind me,” you mutter back, drawing your sword, “If there's any fighting to be done, leave it to me.”

“Yes, my friend,” the former slave breathes. Before he can say anything else, you hear a low and wordless song stir the air. A melodic, mournful dirge that tugs at your emotions in a way that's hard to identify. Atal, though, tenses up at the sound of it. “That's her!” he hisses, “My sister sang like that. I know it well!” Drawing in a deep lungful of the humid air, Atal almost cries out before you clap a hand over his mouth.

“Not so fast!” you hiss, “We need to plan this out. Listen carefully...”

>Let's find this Sarnath and speak with him. Maybe we can come to some arrangement
>Don't make a sound. Maybe we can get Arah out without alerting anyone...
>If we hit them hard and fast, we'll be gone before anyone knows what happened!
>Other

>>2926870
>Don't make a sound. Maybe we can get Arah out without alerting anyone...
Lets see if we can scope things out before we commit.

>>2926870
>>Don't make a sound. Maybe we can get Arah out without alerting anyone...

>>2926870
>Don't make a sound. Maybe we can get Arah out without alerting anyone.

I was going to ask what Eishin's tower was. It's a literal tower? LMAO

“First of all, don't make a sound,” you begin, keeping your hand over the young man's mouth, “I'm in charge here – I'm allowed to talk. If we keep quiet and avoid alerting anyone, maybe we can get Arah out peacefully. At the very least, we can scout out the situation a little. Understood? If I take my hand away, you're not going to shout anything, are you?”

When Atal nods, you slowly take your hand away. Setting his expression in a suitably serious grimace, the young man looks around for something, anything, he can use as a weapon. Tentatively easing an unlit torch out of its bracket, he gives the makeshift club an experimental swing. Apparently pleased with the weapon, he nods to himself and gives you an enthusiastic gesture. Inwardly sighing, you take a look around to plan your next move.

The tower is simple, leaving you with little choice of how to proceed. A single staircase spirals the length of the wall, devoid of any nod towards safety, while a wrought iron mesh blocks off your view of the upper level. Light floods in from high windows, and you hear little beyond the singing. Occasionally there is the muted shuffle or bump of something moving, but that is all. Resigning yourself to whatever might lie ahead, you lead the way up the staircase. It's narrow enough that you need to move single file, for fear of someone taking a tumble. At first a fall might merely be loud and embarrassing, but once you're higher up... a broken neck might not be out of the question.

A voice, then, saying something too muffled for any words to be clear. Holding up a clenched fist, you gesture for Atal to hold fast and wait. You listen for a while, but nothing reveals itself to you – until a louder sound pierces the air.

A shrill, womanly shriek of pain.

>I think I'm going to pause things here for today, I'm getting pretty tired. I'll continue this tomorrow, same usual time
>Thank you for your contributions today!

>>2926940
Thanks for running.

Our spirit friend is pretty much the God of Impurity right?

And when he said we were 'old friends' was he talking about when we nearly died, when our mother did the ritual, or some other time?

>>2926940
Thanks for running!

Did Eishin really take the crown and tower thing so literally? Where did he hear those were the two things a king needed?

>>2926955
Well, it sure seems like he's more than just a humble death spirit, so I wonder. He's pretty good at being a guide, though!
>>2927007
Eishin really did take it all literally - what he's learned, he's pieced together from captured scholars and often unwilling witches. Naturally, his grasp of the situation is somewhat distorted

File: thinkinGif.gif (1.88 MB, 480x264)

1.88 MB GIF

>>2927062
So if I'm piecing this together, the world is going through iterations that are shaped by Monarchs which said Monarchs need a Crown and a Tower.

So is Impurity suggesting that Dogma is the current Monarch and that the top of Zenith (where airships can't reach, which would make it an 'obstacle' to get there) is Dogma's Tower?

>>2927062
Guess he didn't have a baller demon telling him how it was. So sad. Truth is, the monarchy was rigged from the start.

>>2927094
no i must kill the eishin! he shouted then the radio said no you are the nadir.
and then milos was king

>>2927090
Sounds like a pretty interesting theory. I, of course, know nothing about any of it. Might be best to see if you can find some expert in the subject and ask them
>>2927094
Well, Eishin might not be in the line to become a true monarch, but that doesn't mean he doesn't have his own plans. Plus, there are certain obligations that come with kingship, which Eishin has managed to dodge

>>2927167
Obligations like hard work? I knew it! Kingship overrated.

>>2927189
Yeah man I just want to fly around on my Crown, I mean the Helena and explore shit. None of this hard work thing!

File: Arah.jpg (334 KB, 1233x1752)

334 KB JPG

Atal almost does something very, very stupid. He almost pushes past you on the stairs, almost losing his footing and almost falling all the way down to the floor below. Almost. He actually starts to move forwards before good sense intervenes and forces him to stillness. As that pained scream fades out, you actually hear the young man whimper to himself. He so dearly wants to rush on ahead, and can you really blame him?

No. If your positions were reversed, you might very well make the same mistake he almost made.

Once silence has finally fallen, you continue up the stairs. That song had been eerie enough, but now its sudden absence seems all the more unnerving. Swallowing heavily, you creep further up the stairs and look about you. Passing through the wrought iron mesh, you find yourself in a laboratory of sorts – the circular room is filled with stained wooden tables, odd instruments and glass jars filled with murky, unnamable filth. There is one door here, leading off to an outer layer of the tower. What really dominates the room, however, is the cage. You've seen birds kept in similar cages, but this is bigger – far bigger.

Big enough for the human being, the mostly human being, that lies in a crumpled heap at the base of the cage. Obviously female, and dressed in a loose white tunic, the girl is markedly deformed by crude reptile features. A pair of wings, small and frail in form, emerge from the bronze-coloured scales on her back, while a far larger tail juts from the base of her spine. Her deformities are remarkable, to be true, but your eyes are drawn to the wounds she bears.

A line of hollow needles, the quills of some defensive beast, pierce her spine and drain her blood out into a series of unclean tubes. A faint dripping sound echoes out as her blood is collected. But... collected for what purpose?

With the notion of medical equipment beyond him, Atal's eyes are drawn towards the scaly tail that the girl bears, his jaw hanging slack with horror. “No...” he whispers, “You... you're not her. She had no-”

One of the girl's eyes flutters open, and she shakily pulls herself upright – as upright as her cage allows. Hanging onto the bars, she peers out at you both with rust-red eyes. “But it IS me, brother,” she murmurs, “Don't you recognise me? I've changed a little, I suppose, but I'm still your sister.”

Grabbing Atal's arm, you squeeze it tightly enough that he can't speak, can't blurt out whatever he was about to blurt out. As if to prove her identity, the deformed girl raised her head and resumed signing. His eyes drifting closed, Atal's expression slowly changed to one of dismay as the realisation set in. What, you wonder, would have been worse - to find his sister dead, or irreversibly changed?

[1/2]

>>2929229

Then, a rattle from behind the door. Alarm flashes across Arah's face, and she furiously gestures down to the stairwell. With nowhere else that could hide you, you have little choice but to hasten down below and wait. A few short, terrible moments later, the door opens and a man – you can only assume that he is Sarnath the alchemist – strides out. He wears dyed fabrics and jewellery, a heavy leather apron and a blank mask of silver that hides everything but his filmy eyes. Beneath his apron you glimpse a number of tools, most of which could easily pass as cruel weapons.

“Talking to someone?” he rasps, reaching out and running his fingers across the bars of the cage. Thick gloves, you notice, anatomical gloves... dissection gloves.

“I was offering a prayer to the gods,” Arah replies in a sullen tone, “That I might live to see the next sunrise.”

Sarnath laughs coarsely. “You'll do more than just see the sunrise,” he declares, “By morning, you will be stronger than ever before. By the next morning, stronger still.” Delving deep into the pocket of his apron, the alchemist produced a heavy glass vial filled with some dark, unclean looking liquid. “You see this? Your blood, your vitae, distilled down to its most concentrated form – the blood of the gods,” he continues, taking out something which you quickly realise is a primitive syringe, “This is a heady gift I have to give you, girl.”

Arah shies back from the bars of the cage, her withered wings shuddering with fear, but the alchemist grabs her wrist and pulls her back. Behind you, Atal trembles with rage but, somehow, he keeps his temper in check. Instead, he waits for your lead.

>Hurry up and confront the alchemist. You can't let him get away with this!
>Hold back for now, watch what happens
>Retreat and create some kind of distraction to interrupt the experiment
>Other

>>2929231
>>Hurry up and confront the alchemist. You can't let him get away with this!
Try and sneak up and put a sword to his throat. Get some answers that way.

>>2929231
>>Hurry up and confront the alchemist. You can't let him get away with this!
Tell Atal to focus on subduing this guy first. Forcibly removing Arah might hurt her.

>>2929231
>>Hurry up and confront the alchemist. You can't let him get away with this!
sneaky Feanor backstab. Which is to say, less sneaky more 2fast4u nothing personal

Is this best girl?

I also want that vial, because the idea of distilling any "impurities" implies the possibility of both removal and specialization

>>2929231
>Hold back and watch
Ny scientific interest is piqued.

>>2929275
Mine too, but it's usually not a good idea to have unwilling experimental subjects.

If we can nab the process, we can attempt it for real on ourselves or anyone who wants to try it out. With, you know, actually clean medical equipment.

>>2929275
Same, but we should get answers when we have control of the situation.

Enough is enough – you can't idly sit by and let Sarnath get away with this!

Ordering Atal to follow you with a curt gesture, you steal up the stairs and approach the alchemist from behind. The metal grate rattles beneath your feet, but even with that warning you're too quick for the alchemist. Grabbing his wrist, the hand that clutches the syringe, you yank it away from his body and pull the razor-sharp edge of your sword up to his throat. Sarnath's hand flits down to the sharp tools at his side before you tweak the flesh of his neck with your blade. That stops him in his tracks, leaving a few tiny drops of blood to stain his gaudy garments.

“That's quite enough,” you murmur to him, shaking your head to Atal as the former slave draws back his crude club to strike out at your captive. “None of that, either,” you caution, “We're all friends here, aren't we? Nobody needs to do anything rash.”

Lowering his club, Atal reaches up and plucks the makeshift syringe out of the alchemist's hand. “What devilry is this?” he demands, waving it in Sarnath's face, “What were you doing to her?”

“Her blood is especially rich, well worthy of study,” Sarnath explains slowly, his rasping voice wavering a little as he struggles to retain his composure, “You understand me? The blood of the gods, that which twists men into new forms, is strong in her. I had hoped to raise her to new heights.”

“Why?” Atal barks, jabbing a finger at the alchemist.

Sarnath doesn't answer this straight away, but you don't sense any reluctance from him – only confusion. “To see if it could be done,” he answers eventually, “Is that not a worthy aim? I merely sought wisdom and new knowledge. But I waste my breath - what would a peasant like you know of science?” Uttering a shaky laugh, Sarnath balls his hands into tight fists. When he next speaks, his voice is tight with new determination. “We can make a deal, can we not?” he suggests, “You wish for her freedom? Then, I can grant that. The key... in my apron pocket. Take it.”

Atal reaches forwards to rummage in the deep pocket sewn into the front of the alchemist's apron, and that's when he strikes. Jerking his head backwards, Sarnath bashes his metal mask into your face. It's an awkward blow, too clumsy to really harm you at all, but it does stun you long enough for him to worm his way out of your grip and push past Atal. Drawing a cruel, curved blade from his belt, the alchemist hisses angrily as he brandishes it at you both.

“Really?” you snap at him, wiping a thin smear of blood away from your nose with an angry swipe of your hand, “This is not going to end well for you, old man. Is this really worth dying over?”

Sarnath wavers, his reddened eyes losing some of their feverish luster as he considers his options.

[1/2]

>>2929286
so I'm guessing Sarnath is trying to make Wyrms here. We should probably start signalling alarms once those scales turn to stone.

>>2929286

“I paid a high price for that slave,” he mutters, “Money and favours both.”

“It will cost you even more than that!” Atal threatens, waving the club at the alchemist, “If you don't let her go, I'll smash every last thing I can find in this place. Then, if you still won't release my sister, I'll move onto you!” Making good on his threat, the young man grabs the closest jar and hurls it to the ground before you can yell out a command to stop. Glass shatters, and the pungent stench of pickled fish floods the room.

“That,” Sarnath sniffs, disdain dripping from his words, “Was my evening meal.” Then, his shoulders slump and he lets the blade drop from his hands. “I had thought myself respected enough that thugs would not intrude upon this place,” he complains, “But it seems that I was mistaken. As you say, stranger, any fight I could give you would not end in my favour. I accept defeat. The key is yours.”

At this, Atal lets out a triumphant laugh. “Slow down now,” you warn him, glancing away as Sarnath reaches for the key, “Still got that syringe?” When your question met with a blank look, you try a different approach. “The blood,” you ask him, “That... thing with the blood in it. Do you still have it?”

“Ah, yes, I have it!” the former slave answers, “I have... Watch out!”

Jerking your head back around, you see Sarnath hurling something towards you – something that is definitely not the key. The small glass bead shatters when it hits you, emitting a shrill shriek and a terrible stench of decay. Almost immediately, you hear an answering shriek ringing out from elsewhere in the city. Taking advantage of your distraction, Sarnath turns and flees through the door. You start to follow, but that's when something explodes through one of the high windows above you.

One of the winged creatures you've seen flying above this place, it smashes through the narrow window and showers you with fragments of stone. A bestial head, a human body lined with seeping sores, and wings heavy with rancid feathers, all combine to convey the impression of a loathsome, diseased thing. A low growl escapes it as Arah cries out in fear, rattling the bars of her cage. Drawn by the corpse stench that clings to you, the daemon stalks closer.

>Calling for a dice roll here. 2D6, aiming to beat 10-11 for a partial success and 12+ for a full success. I'll take the highest of the first three results, and Feanor's blade still gives us a +2 to this check.

Rolled 1, 5 + 2 = 8 (2d6 + 2)

>>2929359

Rolled 2, 3 + 2 = 7 (2d6 + 2)

>>2929359
Woah, high DC for this one.

Rolled 1, 6 + 2 = 9 (2d6 + 2)

>>2929359
uhoh

File: freeshrugs.jpg (84 KB, 449x642)

84 KB JPG

Well I guess it was good dream while it lasted.

>Failure!

You and the daemon circle each other for a moment, the cage blocking off a direct attack. You're trying to get the measure of the creature, and the impression you get doesn't fill you with confidence, while it just looks hungry. Atal is wise enough to stay well back, flattening himself up against the tower wall and staying dead still whenever the daemon grows close. It doesn't seem to notice about him – the reeking odour Sarnath splashed you with has its attention focused solely on you.

Then, hunger finally drowns out the daemon's patience, and it launches itself upwards with one powerful beat of its wings. Leaping atop the cage, it barely pauses for a moment before hurling itself towards you. Before you can bring up your sword, the daemon slams into you and drives you backwards with crushing force. Stone shatters as it drives you back through the tower wall, and then you find yourself falling, tumbling through the air before landing heavily on a neighbouring roof. Stunned by the landing, the daemon isn't hard for you to kick away.

Atal yells down to you from the tower, but you can't make out what he's saying. Even if you could, you've got more important things to worry about right now. Wiping dust away from your eyes and rising to your feet, you slash out at the daemon just in time to drive its next attack back. Atal keeps shouting, and finally some of his words reach you.

“He's getting away!” the young man yells, “I can't... You can still catch him!”

“Oh, what the hell?” you mutter, risking a quick glance over your shoulder. Below you, you see Sarnath fleeing out into the streets with two heavy bags – the fruits of his research, you assume. This is his territory, and if you lose him now you might never find him again. On the other hand, you've still got a very hungry daemon to worry about...

>Focus on fighting the daemon
>Chase after Sarnath before he can escape
>Other

>>2929400
>Other
Get the daemon to chase you while you chase after Sarnath.

>>2929400
>Chase after Sarnath before he can escape
Time for a wacky chase. At the very least the daemon will be away from here and Atal can rescue his sister.

>>2929411
I think that's what is going to happen. It's attention is solely on us.

>>2929421
The options didn't specify, so I was just covering bases.

>>2929400
>Chase after Sarnath before he can escape
man, I hope Atal doesn't kill himself trying to break the lab equipment. That would be embarrassing.

>>2929400
>Chase after Sarnath before he can escape

>>2929400
>Focus on the daemon

We have the sister back.

>>2929400
bah, screwit

switch >>2929466
with
>Focus on fighting the daemon
Sister and completed vial is more important than alchemist guy. It's not like we could get the full university course out of him.

>>2929499
you quoted the wrong post, you fool

>>2929504
clearly I need to go to sleep.

>>2929400
I'm sure you can tell I meant to change this vote >>2929447

When the daemon next pounces, you launch yourself backwards and out of its reach. Before it can press the attack, you turn on your heel and sprint towards the edge of the roof you now stand upon. Jumping across the gap, you land on the next building across and roll, moving again as soon as you're back on your feet. Below you, Sarnath continues to flee through the streets. Above you, though, you hear the menacing beating of wings.

You'll worry about that later. For now, you need to keep Sarnath in your sights. He hasn't noticed you yet, his attention focused on getting as far away from his own tower as possible, and so you have a chance to close the gap between you. Your muscles cry out in protest as you leap from one building to the next, but you force all thoughts of pain from your mind. When Sarnath glances towards a narrow alleyway ahead of you, you spot your chance.

As he turns into the narrow passageway, you hurl yourself down and tackle him, driving the alchemist to the ground in a tangle of limbs. He doesn't offer much in the way of a struggle, and soon you're dragging him to his feet. Slamming him up against the wall, you see his eyes widen with fear. “You!” he spits, “But you-”

“Can't get away from me that easily,” you snarl, still listening out for the sound of beating wings. You don't hear them, but...

“You fool, you'll lead it right to me. Right to us both!” the alchemist protests, glancing down at his garb. A faint oily stain glistens there, and you realise what he means. Some of his vile perfume must have rubbed off on him, marking him out as a target as well. The idea has him terrified, but for you... it's almost funny, seeing him caught in the backlash of his own weapon.

“Need some help?” you offer, stooping down to scoop up the first of his bags, “Maybe if you do what I tell you, you might just survive this. What do you say?”

It takes a matter of seconds before Sarnath relents. “I... yes, yes, fine!” he pleads, “We need water, to wash away the unguent. The temple of the waves is nearby, we can... Oh gods!” With a thin shriek, he points up towards the buildings looming over you. Jolting around, you see the daemon peering over the edge of the roof, a low growl seeping out from its throat. Upon realising that it's been spotted, the daemon scrabbles forwards and lunges down at you. Sarnath stumbles away as it lands, nearly falling before finding his footing and sprinting off. Tasting the air, the daemon hesitates for a moment as it tries to decide which of you to chase. Seizing your chance, you lunge forwards at the daemon.

Enough fleeing. Now it's time to fight.

[1/2]

>>2929514
Just realized our guide has been quiet for a while.

>>2929536
He's been microwaving popcorn and watching this.

>>2929514

Even distracted, the daemon has keen reflexes, pulling away from your opening thrust. Despite this, your blade still finds it and scores a long line of blood across its muscular shoulder. It turns to swipe at you with one broad paw, but in this narrow alleyway its wings are more of a hindrance than a benefit. Hampered by their bulk, its first blow sails harmlessly through the empty air that once held your head. Keen reflexes or not, the thing is fighting at a disadvantage here.

Ditching the heavy bag at your feet and thrusting instead of slashing, you jab at the daemon with your sword, opening up several more shallow gashes across its arms and chest. Ignoring whatever pain it might have been feeling, it powers through your next attack with a wide blow that smashes bricks from the walls either side of you. Chips of shattered score score across your cheek, the pain chastising you for your overconfidence. Playing around with the thing is just inviting trouble, and if you get your head torn off here...

Well, you'll likely wake up with one hell of a hangover.

>Calling for a dice roll here. 2D6, aiming to beat 9-10 for a partial success and 11+ for a full success. I'll take the highest of the first three results, and Feanor's blade still gives us a +2 to this check.
>Lowered target numbers due to the unfavourable conditions!

Rolled 4, 3 + 2 = 9 (2d6 + 2)

>>2929560

Rolled 4, 2 + 2 = 8 (2d6 + 2)

>>2929560

Rolled 1, 1 + 2 = 4 (2d6 + 2)

>>2929560

>Partial success!

Driven into a flurry of rage by its wounds, the scavenger daemon slashes furiously at you without ever giving you a moment to launch your counter attack. You duck and dodge the blows that come at you, occasionally batting one away with your blade, but actually going on the offensive? Right now, that's the last thing on your mind. It takes all the strength you have to keep up your defence... and your strength is failing.

When the final attack comes, you're too slow to dodge it completely. The brute paw slaps into your chest with punishing force, shredding open your shirt and knocking you back against the wall. Hitting the grey brick hard, you stumble back and fall to the ground. The sound of wings beating is what stirs you from your daze, and you roll over just in time. Bringing your sword up and holding it fast, you raise the point as the daemon lunges towards you.

Carried forwards by its own momentum, it impales itself on the tip of your sword with enough force to send a shudder running up your arms. Blood mists from its mouth as it roars at you one last time before all strength leaves its body and it collapses down onto you. For a moment, the idea of being crushed underneath its bulk seems like a very real possibility, but then the heavy body starts to lose all form. Dissolving into a flurry of mangy feathers, the remains of the daemon drift skywards and fade into smoke.

Then, the sound of sardonic applause fills the alleyway.

-

“Very entertaining!” your guide crows, “Most men would not last a minute in open combat with the birds of this city. But then, not many men could command one either... A place of many wonders, this city. Would you not agree?”

Picking yourself up, you look down at your chest and peer through the rips in your shirt. The thin metal armour you wear beneath it has been rent open, the daemon's claws shearing through it as if it had been no more hardy than the shirt over it. At least the armour took the worst of the blow. You'll need to find someone to repair it, or buy a replacement, when you...

“But this is just a damn dream,” you mutter angrily, shaking your head. It's hard to remember that sometimes, in this place that is not quite reality. Picking up Sarnath's bags, you start back towards the alchemist's tower. Once you're there, you can check on the siblings and take a look at whatever the bags contain. It must be important, if Sarnath took it with him when he fled.

[1/2]

>>2929646

When you arrive back at the tower, Arah's cage stands open and the girl herself is free. Clearly glad of her freedom, she is busy stretching out her limbs when you arrive. For a moment, you find it hard to take your eyes off of her – her torn garb does little to hide her body, and her exercises are quite vigorous...

“You're back!” she exclaims, her voice jolting you back to reality, “Sarnath... he threw away his key when he left. A distraction, to keep my brother from chasing him. What happened to him?”

“He got away,” you explain, setting down the bags, “But I don't think he'll be coming back here any time soon.”

“A shame. I would have liked to see you ring his scrawny neck,” Arah murmurs, “But I have my freedom now. I thank you, stranger. I believe that we shall leave this city soon – I do not wish to remain here for any longer than necessary.” Sighing heavily, she closes her golden eyes for a long moment as she thinks. “I have heard tell of the men of the mountain. I know not how, but supposedly they have made themselves clean – purging themselves of the taint that Sarnath sought to grant me,” the deformed girl continues, “I will go there, I think. A new start, a new name... a new life, perhaps. All thanks to you, stranger. I fear that my brother could not have done this without you.”

She holds out her hand to you, and you take it warmly. As you shake it, you feel a strange sense of... familiarity.

-

“This is for you,” Atal announces, holding out the syringe to you. Shaking off the odd feeling, you let go of Arah's hand and take the corrupted blood. “We have no use for it,” the former slave continues, “The blood of the gods is a sacred medium, but this is... bad. It has been tampered with. No good can come of it, I think. My friend, you should be careful with it.”

“I will,” you promise him. It's less a case of being careful with it, you think to yourself, and more a case of whether you could do any damage with it. This place... you might be able to learn things here, but you can't imagine that you'd be able to bring anything back. Injecting it into yourself might have some effect, but... you can't think of any reason why that would be a good idea. Quicker just to cut your own throat and be done with it, perhaps. Instead, you open the first bag and look inside. It's filled with scrolls, their parchment covered in neat rows of unreadable characters. “Hey,” you ask Atal, showing him the scroll, “Can you read any of this?”

“Read?” he replies with a puzzled frown, “I don't... understand.”

Sighing, you look back to the scroll. As you stare at the characters, they almost blur for a moment before assuming a new form – a form that you can actually read.

“No need to thank me,” your guide whispers smugly in your ear.

>Going to need to take a short pause here, so the next post might be a little delayed.

>>2929753
>your guide whispers smugly in your ear.
okay, he can have that smug tone. That's pretty damn impressive.

>>2929753
this guy is pretty cool. Can we have him live in the sword instead of Feanor? I can handle the plotting about some grand unknowable purpose.

>>2929753
Soooooo

anyone wanna inject ourselves with the syringe and be a cool dragonboi?

>>2929874
I'm good. There are probably a lot more finer details beyond just injection and we might have more to learn here

>>2929874
didn't he say it was now tainted and tampered with? doesn't seem like a great idea

>>2929891
>>2929874
one guy says tainted, the other guy says distilled. Same issues with the translation of "impurity".

It's very likely to end in extremely not good things if we try it out, but.......DO IT, DO IT, DO IT, DO IT

We could get fancy dragon arm, wings, an extremely inconvenient tail......or something actually bad.

>>2929891
what does a random nobody like him know, he was being sold as a slave lmao

nah but that was mostly a joke

>>2929753

As dusk slowly fades into the dark of night, you pour over Sarnath's records. Most of them, you don't really understand – alchemical formulae that refer to plants that you've never heard of, commentary on daemons that rule over cults mentioned only by inference, and stranger things aside. More interesting are the references to the blood of the gods – what you know as the Nadir blood. Sarnath theorised that the blood could be used in many miraculous ways, either by curing any wound – the “universal panacea”, as he called it – or by uplifting a subject to new heights.

None of his experiments, however, had yielded success. Rather than growing closer to divinity, as he had hoped, his subjects had devolved into mindless beasts. He had hoped that Arah would be different, although you're not exactly sure why. Boundless optimism, perhaps?

When you move onto another scroll, however, you find something far more interesting. This scroll contains a map of the land, the base outline similar and yet different to what you're used to seeing. The map bears several annotations that lead to further passages of text, but one marking in particular stands out to you. It's hard to be certain, due to the slight differences in the land, but this mark would be on the rough location of Eishin's territory. According to the annotation, it represents a cavern leading deep into the guts of the land.

And, eventually, leading down to the roots of the world itself.

-

“So Eishin is sitting on top of... that,” you think aloud, taking a drink of the crude wine you found in Sarnath's tower, “He has to know about it, right? Maybe that's why he built his camp there, to keep anyone else from stumbling across them. But that means...”

“They might have a lot of people stumbling across them very soon,” your guide purrs, “Ah, I wonder what might happen then. How many men would be tempted to sup from them, do you think, if they knew what they stood to gain?”

“Not many...” you reply, doubting the words even as you say them. Shaking your head, you push aside the scroll and look the daemon in the eye. “Why am I here?” you ask it bluntly, “Is there something you want me to see? Something you want me to do here? I just can't believe that you brought me here out of the goodness of your own heart. How exactly do you profit from any of this?”

“A good question,” it chuckles, “How indeed?”

“That's not an answer,” you snap, “That's not even remotely an answer!”

“Some might just accept the help and be grateful for it,” it replies, its eyes creasing up with a pout, “Must we really do this tiresome interrogation? Wouldn't you rather do something productive instead?”

>You're right, there's no point. I'm leaving
>I don't care. Answer my questions... (Write in)
>Other

>>2930020
>Other
"Knowledge is power, and a King needs both."

>>2930020
>>2930031
This
Also Ask his name

>>2930020
>I don't care. Answer my questions... (Write in)

"If two men both ate the roots and then tried to kill each other on the land of their birth, how would that work out? Would they just both fail?"

>>2930020
>Other
"You underestimate me spirit. I am very skilled at multitasking and wasting other people's time! Let's walk and talk."

>Answer my questions... (Write in)
"Arah reminds me a little of the Wyrms in my time. Is there a connection there?"

"I imagine your goal is took get someone to replace the current Monarch right? To replace the one who stole man's birthright. Is it Dogma? And the mountain of Zenith is his Tower?

“Knowledge is power, spirit,” you tell it firmly, “And a true monarch will require both in the days ahead, will they not?”

“Perhaps so,” the spirit replies, “But will YOU require this knowledge? That, I think, remains to be seen. You seem like a man who favours deeds over lofty thoughts. Your time would be better spent training, son of man, leaning to wield that blade like a true master.”

Grunting, you rise to your feet. “Walk and talk, spirit. If you think I can't multitask, I fear that you've sorely underestimated me,” you order, trusting that the daemon will follow you as you turn and stride out of the tower. “How about your name?” you ask as you walk, “Let's start with that. I'm growing tired of calling you “spirit” all of the time.”

“If it pleases you, son of man, you may call me “Kegare”. In truth, no name can truly describe what I am,” your guide offers, “To name a thing is to claim ownership over it, and I... I am beyond such things.” The spirit throws an overly friendly arm around your shoulders as you walk, subtly steering you as you walk through the streets. “Besides,” it adds with a chuckle, “You already know who I am, do you not?”

“I think I do...” you murmur, “And perhaps I can guess your motive. I believe that there is a true monarch already, and you wish me to replace them. The true monarch is the one who stole mankind's birthright – the Master of Dogma. Am I close? The Mountain of Faith is his tower, although his crown... I'm not sure about that.”

“You have many interesting ideas, son of man. It IS true that I wish to see a new monarch crowned, but perhaps not for the reasons you might think. You see... the throne currently stands empty,” Kegare tells you, hissing the words into your ear and mind both, “Until now, no monarch has been able to hold his throne for long. Now, though, I believe that things are changing. He who I wish not to name is growing weaker, growing... unstable. The order he has laid out is failing. It will not be long now, I think.”

“Not long until what?” you ask, only for your question to be met with silence. “Fine then,” you grunt, “Arah, the girl. She reminds me of the wyrms I've seen in my time. Is there a connection there?”

“In this time, in this place, they do not yet exist,” Kegare answers, pointing out a street ahead and guiding you down it, “But yes, there is a connection. The girl will ascend the mountain, and she WILL be consumed by he who I wish not to name. What you call wyrms will be created in her image – the anger of the land, shaped after one who found a true and perfect faith. Such strange things, those creatures, I fear that even I understand them only a little...”

Which, you must admit, is probably more than you understand them.

[1/2]

>>2930141

You're being steered towards the palace, it seems, to meet with a true monarch. If this is the price you have to pay for getting Kegare to answer a few questions, then... maybe you can accept it. You're not finished yet, though. “What do you mean, no monarch can hold the throne for long?” you ask, “What happens to them?”

“What happened to Feanor?” Kegare asks in return, “He was chased to the furthest corner of the land and destroyed, by the followers of... you know who.” The spirit pats you on the shoulder, then ruffles your hair with a disgusting degree of condescension. “When the monarch ascends to the throne, it marks the start of a new era – a new iteration of the world,” it continues, “And the first act of the world... the king is dead, long live the king. This time, though... perhaps not.”

There's really not much you can think to say to that, and you really rack your mind. Instead, you shrug. “Say you have two men. Both of them have gnawed on the roots of the world, and both of them are standing upon the soil of their birth,” you think aloud, “What happens if they fight? Would it just... never end?”

“Perhaps so. They could cut and thrust for one thousand years without ever landing a fatal wound,” the spirit muses, “But could two men really hate each other enough to fight for that time? I think not – but I DO hope to be surprised one of these days.”

-

By the time you reach the palace, the dream has started to unravel around you. The streets have emptied, and the few palace guards you do see are... incomplete. Their faces are blurred, without detail, and they stand rigidly in place even when you wave a hand in front of them. The palace itself is just as bad, with the various corridors you see melting off into an indistinct haze. Briefly, you wonder what would happen if you wandered down one of those abysses, but... the idea has little appeal. Just thinking about sinking through the ground and falling into some empty void leaves you shuddering.

“Is this bad?” you ask Kegare, “Should I be worried?”

“There are limits,” the daemon – or whatever it really is – answers, “Not to my power, of course, but to your ability to endure it. In reality, your mind is starting to grow... restless. Even with the inordinate amount of alcohol you consumed, you cannot stay comatose forever.”

“Can't believe I've got a daemon lecturing me about my drinking...” you mutter, “Are you going to tell me to say a few prayers next?”

“That would depend,” Kegare purrs, “On who you would be praying to.” Chuckling to himself, the daemon grabs your wrist and pulls you forwards. “But come, come!” it urges, “King Grundvald – one of many – awaits!”

>I think I'm going to have to pause things here for today. I will continue this tomorrow, however, at the same usual time
>Thank you for your patience today!

>>2930264
Thanks for running! I like this dream-sequence, we should get blackout drunk more often.

>>2930264
Thanks for running!

Can we send a mental message to Keziah from here, telling her to inject more alcohol directly into our veins to sustain the dream journey?

>>2930279
Maybe we should! It almost felt a little self-indulgent at points, getting a chance to really double down on some of the weirdness, but I've had a lot of fun writing this

>>2930283
That sounds incredibly detrimental to our long-term health!
So obviously, it's worth a try